Most Likely To Succeed
by Celica60
Summary: Shannon isn't in control anymore. Concurrent to BFF.
1. Chapter 1

**Most Likely To Succeed**

Summary: Shannon Kilbourne, convinced she can run her own life and the lives of everyone around her, has lost control. Concurrent to _BFF._

Rating: Teen for mild language, adult situations, and controversial issues.

Disclaimer: The BSC is the property of Ann M. Martin and Scholastic.

Author's Note: This story is set in the same universe as my stories, _Regretting Stacey_ and _BFF. _It exists on the same timeline as _BFF._

* * *

_Tap, tap, tap._

I keep my head bowed over my paper, firmly concentrating on my Italian translations. I'm supposed to be writing a paragraph about myself. My pencil scratches almost noiselessly on the paper, thin and straight letters appearing faintly. I write _Piaccio delle lingue straniere._ I enjoy foreign languages. Is that correct? I pause before moving to the next sentence._ Piaccio delle lingue straniere. I enjoy foreign languages._ Something looks wrong. I made a mistake

_Tap, tap, tap._

I shouldn't second guess myself. I move onto the next sentence_. Sono spedito negli inglesi, in spagnolo, ed in francese._ I am fluent in English, Spanish, and French. Yes. That is correct. Next sentence.

_Tap, tap, tap._

I sigh and set down my pencil. I steal a quick glance at Signore Chancey, then turn discreetly around. "What?" I hiss, lowly.

My friend, Meg Jardin, immediately stops tapping her pencil against the back of my chair. She leans forward, tipping our heads together in a confidential manner. "What are you rallying the vote on for me?" she whispers with a grin.

Oh, honestly! I roll my eyes. "That's why you've been tapping the back of my chair for the last ten minutes?" I ask, voice still low. "You know I can't tell you."

"Is it Best Smile?" Meg presses. Her grin spreads, displaying lovely white teeth. "Is it Prettiest Eyes?" Meg bats her dark brown eyes at me.

"Meg, you know the rules. We can't discuss this," I insist, facing forward again.

Meg Jardin is one of my closest friends. We've been friends as long as I can remember. Still, she can be a pain. She's been pestering me (and everyone else) all week about the Senior Awards. The Senior Awards are a big deal at our school, Stoneybrook Day School. They're an especially big deal this year because we're finally seniors. Senior Awards are things like "most athletic", "most talkative", and "best car". It's kind of silly, I guess. But the week before elections, everyone in the senior class runs around, campaigning for their friends for certain awards. It's tacky to campaign for yourself. The elections are run by the yearbook staff, which I'm actually on. Except I work in the Student Life section, not the Senior section. I'll learn the results in May along with everyone else.

Meg leans over my shoulder. "I'll tell you, if you tell me," she offers.

I shake my head. My friends and I agreed. We wouldn't reveal what each person is nominated for. We took turns sitting in my kitchen while upstairs everyone else took a vote. We've campaigned discreetly, yet enthusiastically, for each other.

Meg leans even closer, so her lips brush my ear. "Most likely to succeed," she hisses.

I whip around. "What?" I ask, a bit too loudly. Several students shush me and Signore Chancey clears his throat in warning. I lower my voice again. "Are you serious?" I ask Meg.

She nods her head. "It was unanimous. Everyone agrees you deserve it."

I turn around again, sort of slumped in my chair, in shock. Most likely to succeed. The most coveted of the Senior Awards. In a school as competitive as Stoneybrook Day, every senior wishes for the distinct privilege of being held above everyone else. The most likely, of everyone, to succeed - to be prosperous, recognized, rich, triumphant. It is an honor to win and an insult to be passed over.

Secretly, I hoped to be nominated.

The fifth period bell rings. Signore Chancey reminds us of tonight's homework assignment, which I've already copied down in my notebook. I'll finish my translations tonight. I'll double and triple check them.

"So, Shan," Meg says, sidling up to me after class. "What am I nominated for?"

I smile. "You'll know when you win," I reply and breeze down the aisle.

Out in the hallway, I hurry around the corner to my locker to exchange my Italian book for my geology book. Geology is my new passion. I have lots of passions. School and extracurriculars are very important to me. I'm taking a heavy load this year. But then, I take a heavy load every year. At Stoneybrook Day, slacking off, even in senior year, is definitely frowned upon. We're all supposed to be Achievers. This year my classes are tough, but exciting. Not only am I taking geology and second-year Italian, I'm also taking European history, World Literature, calculus, and microbiology. I wanted to take sociology or anthropology instead of the mandatory study period, but Dr. Patek, our headmistress, refused to waive that requirement. She said that with yearbook and all my other activities, I have enough already. My friends agree. They think I'm crazy. I'm certain they are taking bets as to when I'll crack. But it's the second week in October, we've been in school five weeks, and I'm at the top of every class.

After sliding my geology book into my messenger bag, I begin to fight my way through the sea of navy and plaid. Sixth period is lunch for grades nine through twelve. The cafeteria is in the sixth-through-eighth building, so it's always an ordeal to make it through the connecting hallway alive. At some point along the way, Meg and our friend Lindsey fall wordlessly into step beside me. Meg's still pouting from our earlier conversation and Lindsey is attempting to copy someone's economics homework in a sloppy rush.

"Should have done it last night," I tell her, as we enter the sixth-through-eighth building.

"I had a date," she replies, not looking up.

"There's your problem," I answer.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

My own boyfriend, Mick Stone, doesn't live in Stoneybrook. He's from Greenvale, but right now, he's away at college. He's a freshman at Idaho State, where he's on a wrestling scholarship. We met last April at his grandparents' fiftieth wedding anniversary party. My mom works for his grandfather. Next week is our six month anniversary. I don't mind the long-distance relationship. It works for us. As much as I care for Mick and enjoy spending time with him, he isn't here to distract me, nor I him. We're both so busy with school and activities. The distance is good for us.

"Yo, Shannon!" shouts an unmistakable voice from down the hall. Several heads turn, but Kristy doesn't mind. She and Abby continue shoving their way through the crowd toward us.

"Whatever you do, don't go in the library today! Ms. Shellback is in there eating ribs and sauerkraut!" Abby announces when she and Kristy reach us. Abby waves her hand in front of her face and makes a terrible face. "I told her I was allergic. She said I'd have to leave then."

"It was a worthy effort to spare our nostrils," Kristy says, patting Abby on the back. "Let's eat!" Kristy makes a grand gesture with her arm, then charges into the cafeteria.

I've known Kristy Thomas and Abby Stevenson a much shorter time than I have the rest of my friends. Kristy and I have been friends for about four years. Abby and I, a little less than that. Both live across the street from me, but that's a development from recent years. Kristy grew up across town and attended public school through eighth grade. Abby is originally from Long Island. She moved to Stoneybrook with her mom and twin sister during eighth grade. The three of us once belonged to an organization called The Baby-Sitters Club. Kristy was the founding president. The club disbanded after eighth grade. Also after eighth grade, Kristy and Abby decided to not continue their education in the public school system. Instead they started high school with me at Stoneybrook Day. No one knows why they made this decision. I was away at drama camp that August and when I returned, Kristy told me the news. No real reason, she said. I suspect she and Abby got in some trouble. I can't imagine what they did.

"Does anyone have anything better than peanut butter and grape jelly on whole wheat?" I ask, opening my lunch sack. We all bring our lunch to school. Even Kristy. Freshman year, she kept trying to gross us out with the school lunches, so we banned her from our table. After a week and a half in exile, she came around. Now she brown bags it like everyone else and keeps her observations to herself. I'm proud to take partial credit for the civilization of Kristy Thomas.

"I have cream cheese and olive on a croissant," Meg offers, obviously forgetting she's put out with me.

"Fancy," I comment, reaching across the table for the sandwich.

"I like peanut butter," Meg tell us, unwrapping my sandwich. "Mom won't buy it. She says it's low-class."

Kristy rolls her eyes. "I wasn't aware food products have social status," she says.

"They don't," Meg says through a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. "That's my mom's opinion, not my own."

"Maybe you should keep it between you and your mom then," Kristy suggests. She takes a swig of her seltzer, then rolls her eyes at me.

As I'm unscrewing the cap on my bottled ice tea, Greer Carson flies through the cafeteria doors, rushing straight toward us. Greer is my best friend. We've been best friends since the fifth grade. We don't have much in common anymore, but I think we'll always be best friends in some sense.

"You will not believe what just happened to me!" Greer shrieks, coming to an abrupt halt behind Kristy and Meg. Greer makes huge, exaggerated gestures whenever she talks, and drags out all her words. She wants to be a stage actress someday. To Greer, every moment is a performance opportunity. "So, I'm walking down the hallway in the administration building," Greer begins walking in place, pumping her arms. "And suddenly! I'm hit by a wave of nausea! I panicked. What would I do? I ran for the restroom, but the women's room was locked! I pounded on the door and Mrs. Melbrit called out in her craggy voice, 'come back in half an hour, deary.' I couldn't wait that long, so I threw open the men's room door," Greer swings out her right arm, hitting Kristy in the head. "Sorry, Kristy. So, I threw open the men's room door and there was Mr. Holton standing at the toilet with his pants down. And I saw _it_."

I cover my mouth. "Old Mr. Holton?" I gasp.

"Yes. It was all shriveled," Greer says. "I swear, my hand to God."

"Ew!" Meg exclaims.

"How long did you look?" asks Kristy.

"I didn't _stare_ at it!" cries Greer.

"How are you sure it was shriveled then?"

"It just was," Greer huffs and squeezes in between Meg and Kristy. "Thank you for ruining my story."

"I was curious, that's all," Kristy replies, stabbing her fork into her fruit cup. "I mean, I have the man for economics next period. I don't want that vision clouding my thoughts on the subject."

Greer purses her lips as she unwraps her sandwich. "And his toupee was sitting on the sink," she adds.

Kristy points her fork at Greer. "Now that's the kind of detail I want to hear," she says.

I laugh. "He takes it off to use the restroom? Why would he do that?"

Greer shrugs. "Maybe Kristy can ask him next period."

"Don't give her any ideas!" I warn, still laughing.

I look over at Lindsey and Abby, who have been uncharacteristically quiet. Lindsey's still hunched over Karl Schmauder's homework. Across from her, Abby's bent over an open binder scribbling in her sociology journal.

"I thought you had sociology in the mornings," I say and when Abby's doesn't answer, I repeat myself.

Abby glances up, her thick, curly dark hair falling over half her face. "I was busy last night. Mr. Retchfield said to turn it in by the end of the day," Abby tells me, then lowers her head and resumes her hurried scribbling.

Kristy gives me a look from across the table. A look that clearly means, _typical Abby._ Abby is a lazy student and everybody knows it. She doesn't worry much about homework or due dates. She swore to buckle down this year. I know she's starting to think about college. But it already seems like she's fallen behind.

"What time should we expect Anna tomorrow?" I ask Abby, even though I realize I shouldn't bother her. But she needs to learn to do her homework at home. "Around four, like usual?" Anna is Abby's twin sister. We're close friends. She never attended SDS, but Stoneybrook High, the public school, where there's an orchestra. Anna is a wonderful, gifted violinist. Since last year, she's attended a special music school in New Haven.

"She isn't coming," Abby mumbles without looking up.

"Why not?" I demand. "She hasn't come the last two weekends! I cleared space for her in my schedule and everything!" Last year, Anna came home almost every weekend. But since her school started in August, we've hardly seen her. She never comes home when she promises to.

Abby shrugs, but doesn't answer.

I finish Meg's sandwich in silence, chewing slowly. I hate it when people disappoint me. I always fulfill my promises.

Across the table, Greer nudges Kristy with her elbow and jerks her head toward me. I turn to see what they're staring at. It's my younger sister, Tiffany, striding purposely toward our table, a scowl planted firmly on her face.

"You didn't pack my lunch this morning," she accuses me as soon as she nears.

"Yes, I did. It was in the refrigerator."

"You said you put it in my backpack!"

"I did not!"

Tiffany scowls at me, then turns to Lindsey. "Move over. I want to sit beside my sister," she orders. Lindsey obeys, sliding into the next chair. Tiffany sits down beside me and picks up my half-eaten green apple. She bites into it without asking. Tiffany is in the tenth grade. At least, _technically_. She didn't pass most of her ninth grade classes, except earth science and strangely enough, third-year French. Tiffany can carry on quite the conversation en français. Now she's repeating most of her ninth grade classes. "I think I pulled something during gymnastics on the charlie horse," she informs us.

"I think you mean the pummel horse," Greer corrects with a smirk.

"Whatever," Tiffany shrugs, stealing one of my iced oatmeal cookies. "I need a ride to work. I'm covering Marsha's shift," Tiffany tells me. After Tiffany's last report card, our parents revoked her allowance. Tiffany had to get a job. She works at Hot Dog On A Stick in the Washington Mall. I think our parents should just reinstate her allowance. Her job takes up the time she should be studying. Plus, I have to drive her back and forth to Stamford three or four days a week.

"You're telling me this _now_? I have a rehearsal after school and an Honor Society meeting," I reply, neatly flattening my lunch sack and folding it into a pocket of my messenger bag. I try to use to the same sack all week.

"Why do you have to go to rehearsal?" Tiffany demands. "You're not in the play!"

"I wrote it," I snap back. The play is only ten minutes long. It's called _The Broken Hour-Glass_ and I wrote it mostly by myself. Greer helped a bit. She's the star. She plays the mother. The play is part of Stoneybrook Day's Creative Arts Faire, which is in a few weeks. Every student must participate in some way. I chose to write a play, which Greer, Kristy, and Karl Schmauder star in. Abby is our sound effects person. Several other students wrote plays or composed songs or choreographed dances. They will all be showcased on a special night.

"I can take you, Tiffany," Kristy offers. "I have to go to the Exercise Shoppe for new knee pads for tonight's game." Even though Kristy never reached five-foot-two, she's on the varsity volleyball team. I think she's the smallest player in the state.

"Kristy! You're in the play!" I protest.

Kristy gives me a doubting look. "Shannon, I sit on a couch for ten minutes. I don't even have any lines!"

"You have the most important part! You break the hour-glass!"

Greer drops her brownie. "Excuse me, but what am I doing on stage? Spinning around in circles?"

"You're _both_ important," I say, diplomatically.

"Thank you," Greer says, slipping her arm around Kristy's shoulders. "And mommy thinks you're very important, too." Greer is Kristy's mother in the play. She enjoys pretending she really is Kristy's mother. Sometimes Kristy finds it funny. Sometimes she does not.

"Knock it off, _Mom_," Kristy says. "Abby can sit on the couch today."

"I have homework!" Abby pipes up, still lost behind her curtain of curly hair. "I need new knee pads, too. Thanks, Kristy."

"Fine. I'll sit on the couch," I tell them. It's only a single rehearsal after all. And Kristy only pantomimes breaking an hour-glass anyway. We're still trying to convince Dr. Patek to allow her to break a real one on stage.

Tiffany pushes back her chair and stands up. "Great. Thanks, Kristy. I'll change into my uniform when I get home, then walk over to your house. Gotta go now. Ms. Head's waiting for me in the oceanography lab." Oceanography is Tiffany's only tenth grade class, other than fourth-year French.

When Tiffany leaves, Greer smirks and opens her mouth.

"Please don't say anything about my sister," I say, cutting her off before she can begin.

After lunch, the six of us head back to the high school building together. We branch off slowly. Kristy and Lindsey headed into Mr. Holton's economics class, Greer and Meg down the math wing, and finally Abby and I slip into Dr. Mackey's geology class. Dr. Mackey used to teach at Stamford Community College. We're very lucky to have him.

"Did you finish the mineral identifications?" I ask Abby, as we take our seats at a center table. At the start of the school year, I wanted to sit in the front. Abby wanted the back. We compromised.

"I thought that wasn't due until tomorrow!" Abby exclaims, throwing open her geology binder and furiously paging through papers.

"It _is _due tomorrow, but I'm turning in mine today."

"Can I copy?" Abby asks, eyeing my neatly completed table.

"No," I answer, flipping the paper over.

Abby grumbles something and slouches over her binder, shutting me out. I don't know what's with her lately. She's become so tense and secretive.

Geology passes much too quickly. I'm surprised when the bell rings. I stop by my locker to collect a few books. Eighth period is my study period. Unlike a lot of kids, I actually use it as a study period, too. Meg and Greer are always trying to trick me into gossiping and passing notes. I have study period in the school library. The library is part of the administration building, so I have to walk briskly to make it there before the late bell. As usual, Meg and Greer save me a seat at their table. Today, the library smells vaguely of sauerkraut.

I'm halfway through my European history assignment when the announcement comes over the loudspeaker. Dr. Patek instructs all seniors to report to the cafeteria for the Senior Awards voting. Greer, Meg, and I giggle the whole way to the cafeteria, Meg still pleading with us to reveal our vote for her. I giggle with excitement in the secret knowledge of my forthcoming nomination.

We can't find Kristy, Abby, and Lindsey, so we sit at a table with some other friends. The yearbook advisor, Miss Leon makes everyone sit facing the front of the cafeteria, seated with a chair between them and their neighbors. Senior Awards are serious business. She passes out sheets of light green paper and calls for the voting to begin. I neatly print the names of all the people I agreed to vote for. Most Athletic: Abby Stevenson. Biggest Personality: Kristy Thomas. Neither has been at SDS long enough to win. More than anything, the Senior Awards are a popularity contest. Most Dramatic: Greer Carson. No competition there. For a boy, I fill in Karl Schmauder. Most Talkative: Lindsey Dupree. Best Car: Meg Jardin. She has the cutest vintage Jaguar convertible. For cutest couple, I vote for my friends Polly and Bart, even though Greer wanted everyone to do a write-in vote for them as Biggest Stoners. I fill in the rest of the categories with the names of deserving classmates. Then I reach the last category. Most Likely To Succeed. I glance around, discreetly, ensuring no one's sneaking a peek. I write in, very carefully: Shannon Kilbourne.


	2. Chapter 2

I have mixed feelings about Fridays.

Fridays are wonderful in some ways. They are the end of the school week and with them comes the expectation of the weekend. No meetings, no obligations. But Fridays are terrible in other ways. With all the expectations and promises they hold, there is no guarantee of anything good. The blank slate that stretches beyond Friday can be as cold and empty as any other day of the week. Fridays should be special, but often they are, unfortunately, simply more of the same. The same life I have come to expect. I color those expectations gray with disappointment, and unlike so many people and things in my life, those rarely disappoint me.

After school, Lindsey and I drop off some pictures at the yearbook office. We work together in the Student Life section. Actually, Lindsey is my editor. She likes that, that she can boss me around. Lindsey tosses the photo envelope carelessly into the inbox on her desk, then ducks into the dark room. Probably to steal some of the office supplies Miss Leon keeps in there. While I wait beside Lindsey's desk, I spy Amanda Kerner across the room behind her desk. Amanda is the editor of the Senior section. She's straightening a stack of light green papers. The Senior Awards ballots. She slips them into a manila envelope, then slides that into her backpack. This weekend, she'll count the ballots. Until May, only she and Miss Leon will know the winners. I wonder if Lindsey will weasel it out of her before. They play together on the varsity softball team. The team is pretty tight. Amanda leaves the room without even noticing me.

Sometimes I feel invisible.

Lindsey and I part ways outside the building. Her car is in one parking lot, mine is in the other. As I cross the courtyard, I already see Kristy and Abby huddled beside my bumper, their school cardigans stretched tight around them. Even after all this time, I am occasionally surprised by the sight of them in uniform, wearing the same navy plaid skirts and navy knee socks I have worn all my life. I know they anxiously await November first when the girls are allowed to wear khaki pants like the boys. I know our school is old-fashioned. But it's good in a lot of ways, too.

"You should wear coats," I say, when I reach the car.

"You're not," Abby replies.

"I'm not the one shivering." I turn to Tiffany, who is sprawled across the hood of my Ford Explorer like some cheap model in a car magazine. "Get off my car."

Tiffany rolls off the hood while I unlock the doors. As I turn the key in the ignition, Tiffany hops into the passenger seat while Kristy and Abby climb into the backseat. Tiffany called permanent shotgun when my parents gave me this car for my sixteenth birthday. Kristy and Abby have tired of fighting her on the issue. It's like most fights with Tiffany. Eventually, the other person backs down and Tiffany wins.

Kristy and Abby have their own cars. For their sixteenth birthday, Mrs. Stevenson bought Abby and Anna brand new Mustangs. Abby's is bright red. Anna's is glossy black. Abby adores hers. Anna does not. Last year, Abby and I switched off driving each week. But this year, she always has excuses. I drive every day of every week now. Kristy hasn't driven to school even once. She inherited her mom's old station wagon when Watson bought Mrs. Brewer a BMW roadster. Kristy has never said so, but I know she's embarrassed by her car. The SDS parking lot closely resembles a car dealership, everything shiny and new. The few kids who drive beat up cars are pitied. Kristy doesn't want that and it's a funny thing because I never expected Kristy to care.

Kristy, Abby, and I live on McLelland Road. Abby lives two houses down from Kristy and I'm right across the street. I think our proximity is a reason we've become such a close group. We're always within each other's sight, always reminded the others are near. I like that. I like knowing there are two people, straight across the street, who I can depend on.

I drop Kristy and Abby off at Kristy's. Nannie's Pink Clinker is in the driveway, its open trunk filled with grocery bags. My parents, and a lot of our neighbors, think the Pink Clinker is an eye sore. They want it towed to the junk yard. Personally, I think it's kind of nice. A slice of reality in our polished and manicured world. Kristy and Abby are already loading their arms with groceries when Tiffany and I pull into our driveway. Across the street, Abby's house is dark, which isn't anything unusual. Mrs. Stevenson commutes to New York City, where she is a book editor. She's always worked long hours, ever since the Stevensons moved in four years ago. Lately, she has worked later and later. Sometimes she isn't seen for days. Abby practically lives at the Thomas-Brewers. Kristy and I secretly suspect Mrs. Stevenson has a boyfriend in the city. We haven't told Abby. Maybe she doesn't know.

Mrs. Bryar is in the foyer when Tiffany and I enter the house, already buttoned into her coat and winding her striped scarf around her neck. Mrs. Bryar is our housekeeper. She comes three days a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Mrs. Bryar is warm in a very serious and efficient way. I think we are a lot alike. Mrs. Bryar is about the same age as my mother, but she is nothing like my mother. Sometimes I wish she was my mother.

"Sorry, Mrs. Bryar, am I late?" I ask, closing the front door, which Tiffany has left wide open.

"No, no. I'm not in a rush," she replies, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses.

"I'll write out your check. Just a minute," I tell her, walking briskly into the den. I am responsible for paying Mrs. Bryar every Friday. I am responsible for paying all the bills. My parents set up a special checking account for me, which they deposit money into each week.

"You know, you could leave the check taped to the fridge or something," Mrs. Bryar says, when I come back with the checkbook. "That way, you wouldn't have to rush home."

"It's not a problem," I promise, leaning against the wall, writing out the check. I tear it out, carefully, and hand it to her. "I'll walk you to your car."

"You don't have to."

"It's not a problem."

"All right."

Mrs. Bryar and I walk out to the curb where her gray Honda is parked. "Guess what?" I tell her. "Yesterday, we voted for the Senior Awards. For the yearbook? All my friends voted me as Most Likely To Succeed. I think I might win."

Mrs. Bryar smiles at me. "That's really great, Shannon. I hope you win," she says, unlocking the car door.

"I hope so, too. But don't tell anyone."

Mrs. Bryar smiles again. "I won't."

I stand on the sidewalk and wave to her as she drives off. Across the street, the trunk of Nannie's Pink Clinker is shut. Kristy and Abby are finished with the groceries. I turn and walk back inside the house. I find Tiffany and Maria, our twelve-year-old sister, in the kitchen. Maria's sitting at the table, already working on her homework. Maria's in the seventh grade. She gets out of school half an hour before Tiffany and I. She rides the bus home. Tiffany's sitting sideways on the counter, feet dangling into the empty sink, eating a banana.

"Off the counter. That's disgusting," I tell her, for what must be the twenty millionth time.

"Why do you always walk Mrs. Bryar to her car?" Tiffany asks through a mouthful of banana.

"Because I'm polite."

Tiffany narrows her eyes. "Are you guys talking about me?" she demands.

I heave an exaggerated sigh. "Why would Mrs. Bryar and I be talking about you?"

Tiffany shrugs and hops off the table, cramming the rest of her banana in her mouth. I hold out my hand, expectantly, tapping my foot. Tiffany stares at me, oddly, for a moment then rolls her eyes and stomps into the foyer. She returns carrying her messenger bag, the contents of which she dumps onto the table, digging through the mess until she comes up with a piece of folded yellow paper. Tiffany's weekly progress report. Dr. Patek's idea. Not that our parents have ever actually seen one. I unfold the paper and instantly swell with pride. B-pluses in French and oceanography, solid C's in English, American history, and gymnastics. Only a C-minus in algebra.

"Good job, Tiffany," I exclaim. I sit down beside Maria and pick up her pen. I quickly date the report October sixth, then sign _Kathy Kilbourne_ across the bottom.

Tiffany takes the paper from me with a scowl. "We've only been in school five weeks," she says, sullenly. "The work is easy right now."

"No. It's because you've been working harder."

Tiffany rolls her eyes again and scoops her belongings back into the messenger bag. Then without even needing reminding or nagging, takes a seat across from Maria, and opens her French book. We're supposed to begin our homework as soon as we get home from school. Even on Fridays. I created that rule. We usually work until dinnertime. We don't have to finish our homework on Fridays, but it's important to get a head start. Maria has been very receptive to this rule. She loves school, especially math. She's already taking algebra. We don't mention that's the same math class Tiffany's repeating. Tiffany is less cooperative. Sometimes we have long, loud fights about the rule. And sometimes, like tonight, she complies wordlessly. I don't think I will ever understand my sister.

At five-thirty, we put away our books. The three of us stand in front of the open refrigerator for awhile, staring at its near empty shelves, then move to the pantry, which is just as bare. Our grocery delivery is every Saturday afternoon. We have a standing order at the A&P. Maybe I should move the delivery up a day. We finally agree on macaroni and cheese and frozen chicken strips. Not that there's much choice. None of us are much for cooking. There isn't a home economics class at SDS. But we all could use one. Sometimes, if we ask her, Mrs. Bryar cooks us a real meal.

My mother hasn't cooked in three years. Three years ago is when she got her real estate license. Now she works at my boyfriend's grandfather's office in Mercer. Real estate is very competitive. She doesn't come home much. She's here long enough to shower and change her clothes and catch a few hours sleep. Sometimes she even remembers to ask about our day. But sometimes she forgets about us altogether and passes our rooms late at night without a glance in. I guess she learned that from my father. He's a trial lawyer at a big firm in Stamford. He disappeared from our lives long before Mom. He doesn't always come home at night. Once, he went out of town for four days and no one noticed. He walked in with his suitcase and asked if we missed him. He didn't even see our bewildered looks. He didn't even hear Maria when she asked, "You were gone?"

So, that is what we have. Shadows of parents. Ghost parents.

But it doesn't matter.

We're fine.

After saying grace, Tiffany, Maria, and I eat in silence. It's not unlike Tiffany to sulk. She could probably go days without speaking. Maria is different. She usually chatters incessantly without pause.

"What's wrong?" I ask her, spearing a noodle with my fork.

Maria shrugs.

I raise an eyebrow.

Maria sighs and sets down her fork. "The entomology club is going on a field trip. We're having a bake sale to raise part of the money. I called Mom at work to ask if she'd make her pineapple upside-down cake. The one that won that award at the fair once. She said she has more important things to do."

Tiffany snorts. "You're in the entomology club?"

"You're in the gardening club!" Maria shoots back.

"It's called the horticulture club!"

"Knock it off!" I shout. I turn to Maria. "There's an entomology club?"

"It's new. There're only four members."

Tiffany laughs.

"So far!"

I kick Tiffany under the table. "_Stop_," I warn her. "Maria, I can make your cake."

Maria casts a doubtful look in my direction. "No. You can't."

"I'm a fair baker."

"But it won't be award-winning!" Maria protests. "Not really!"

I don't argue because she's right. I'm not an award-winning baker. I'm not even a very good baker. I'd probably make her a pineapple lop-side cake. The three of us clear the table in silence without argument. When the dishwasher is loaded and the table wiped clean, Tiffany and Maria retire to the family room to watch television while I slip into the den. I sit down at my father's big cherrywood desk, the one he hasn't sat at in years, and take out the checkbook and my household daybook. I pay two of Mom's credit card bills and the electricity bill. I wonder if the people at these company's receive these checks and think, _this Kathy Kilbourne is always so prompt with her payments. _And they don't know. They don't know it's me.

The doorbell rings. I can hear a _Growing Pains_ rerun playing in the family room, Tiffany and Maria singing along to the theme song. They're not getting up. I roll back the desk chair and stride into the foyer. I raise onto my toes to peer through the peephole. It's Kristy and Abby. They're making hideous faces because they know I always check.

"What's going on?" I ask them, opening the front door. They've changed out of their uniforms. Kristy's wearing olive green cords with a tan and white striped turtleneck. Abby's in jeans and a red windbreaker. I forgot to change out of my uniform. It's six-thirty on a Friday night and I'm hanging around in my school uniform.

"David Michael wants to go to Good-Time Charley's for ice cream," Kristy tell me without a greeting. "Do you guys want to come? I'll drive." Kristy smiles and dangles her car keys in front of me. There's a plastic Unity Insurance keychain. Not Kristy's car keys. The keys to Watson's Suburban.

"Kristy, you know it freaks me out when you drive that thing. You can barely reach the pedals!"

Abby laughs. "Don't worry! We told David Michael he has to crouch on the floorboard and work them for her." She glances at Kristy and both start laughing, hysterically.

"Just go change," Kristy orders. She leans into the house. "Tiffany! Maria! We're going for ice cream! Hurry up!"

Tiffany and Maria come out of the family room into the foyer. Tiffany's still in her uniform, too. She stops beside me and looks over Abby's shoulder. "Who's that?" she asks.

Kristy and Abby turn around and the five of us crowd the doorway. A white van has pulled to a stop outside our house. A man about my father's age jumps out and waves to us, then walks around to the back of the van. He opens the doors and takes out a vase filled with red and white tulips. Smiling, he starts up the walk.

"One of you Shannon Kilbourne?" he asks.

Maria shrieks. "Someone sent you flowers!"

"I'm Shannon," I say, shoving between Kristy and Abby onto the porch.

"Sign here please," the man says, handing me a clipboard. "Sorry to come so late. I got all the way home and realized I forgot these."

"That's okay!" I assure him, taking the flowers, smiling.

We step back inside the house and shut the front door.

"Oh, Mickey. Oh, Mickey. Ooh, ooh, ooh," Kristy gushes, kissing her her hand with loud smacking noises. She is such a child.

"I'll hold them for you, Shanny," Maria offers when I pluck out a small card from between the tulips. I hand over the vase, so I can open the card. It's just like Mick to surprise me before our actual anniversary. He's very romantic. His first week at Idaho State, he express mailed me a pound of Idaho potatoes. Okay, that wasn't exactly _romantic._ But it was very funny. Before he left for college, though, he baked me a huge heart-shaped cake with red cinnamon frosting. Mick is an excellent baker.

I slowly tear open the envelope and slip out the small card. It has red tulips on it. I read. And immediately, the smile crumples from my face. I stare at the card, stunned.

"What is it?" Kristy demands.

Tiffany snatches the card from between my fingers. She reads aloud, "Dear Shan-Shan," Tiffany pauses to laugh. "The last six months have been great. But we have to break-up. Sorry. Mickey."

Kristy, Abby, Tiffany, and Maria stare at me in absolute horror. My insides grow hot with embarrassment and shame. I hope it doesn't show on my face. I don't want anyone looking at me like that, pitying me, feeling sorry for me. I grab back the card and stuff it into its envelope. "It's okay. Really," I assure them. "We needed to break-up. We need to focus on school."

"It's not okay!" Kristy cries. "That slimeball! That coward! He can't even call you! He can't even write a real letter!"

"I have a plan," Abby says, calmly. "We have Watson's Suburban and a full tank of gas. How long will it take to drive to Idaho?"

"Good thinking, Abby!" Kristy exclaims. "I'll get Nannie's hedge clippers. We'll castrate him."

"I'll go throw _these_," Maria casts a disdainful look at the flowers, "in the garbage."

"Oh, you're all being silly!" I protest. "Maria, go set those on the dining room table, so we can all enjoy them. I'll just run upstairs and change," I dash out of the room and up the stairs. I hear Tiffany behind me, so I move faster. In my bedroom, I start pulling clothes out of the closet. "I think I'll wear my gray skirt," I tell Tiffany, when she enters the room. "Which sweater do you think? The blue or the white?"

Tiffany looks at me sympathetically. It's so sickening I have to turn away, pretending to be enthralled in my choices. Tiffany walks over to me and slips an arm around my shoulders. She's taller than me by several inches. I feel little and weak beside her like that. Helpless.

"It's all right to be upset, Shanny," she tells me.

"Who's upset?" I reply, shaking off her arm. I slip into a pair of gray heels, so I am tall, too.

"He was your first serious boyfriend. You can cry. It's all right to cry."

"I'm not going to cry," I say. I never cry. It's a waste of time. I solve problems. I don't stew about them in salty, self-indulgent tears.

Tiffany's face hardens slightly. "Well, will you do _something_?" she demands. "Scream! Shout! Break something! _Anything_!"

"I am doing something," I reply, casually. "I'm choosing a sweater. The white, I think."

Tiffany's in my face. "If you're not careful," she spits out, "you'll turn into a coldhearted bitch just like Mom!" And then she's gone. She slams my bedroom door and then her own.

Finally alone, I crouch low to the ground. I hold my head in my hands. I can't breathe. It's like Mick has stolen all the breath from my lungs along with my heart. I remain very still. Maybe it will pass. Maybe I will breathe again. I wait a long time. The house is quiet. I regain my breath and straighten up. I should feel calm, but instead there's something boiling deep inside me, red hot and furious. If I'm not careful, it may spill over into my life and betray me.

I take a pillow from my bed, press my face into it, falling forward on the bed. I scream. I scream my throat raw. And when that doesn't help, I punch the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

The Thomas-Brewers are the only real family I know. Real like families in books and on t.v. Real families are together, happy and laughing. They like each other and each others' company. They're loud and chaotic. And everyone is included.

Abby spends too much time at the Thomas-Brewers. I think my sisters and I do too. No one has ever said anything. No one ever would. They invite us over, insistently, and welcome us like their own. The Thomas-Brewers aren't perfect, but they are loving and wonderful in their own unique ways.

Maria and I walk over on Saturday afternoon, carrying a bowl of poorly made potato salad. Tiffany is working an eight-hour shift at Hot Dog On A Stick, like she does most weekends. I know she'll be sorry she missed this. Tiffany would never admit it, but she looks forward to the Thomas-Brewers' barbecues just as Maria and I do. And with the weather colder and the days darker, there aren't many more barbecues to look forward to.

The Thomas-Brewer household is still a full house, even with Karen and Andrew living full-time in Chicago with their mom and stepdad, and with Charlie away at Central Connecticut State in New Britain, where he's a senior. But the house is still loud and hectic even with _just_ Watson, Elizabeth, Nannie, Kristy, David Michael, and Emily Michelle. And usually Abby. And Sam's typically around, hiding out from his wife, but Janet always tracks him down. They live with Janet's parents not far from our neighborhood.

Maria and I enter the backyard through the gate. We can hear Abby and Kristy shouting while David Michael yells "whoop whoop whoop!" I know there's already a soccer game in full swing. Even though their fall sport is volleyball, Abby's true passion still lies with soccer and Kristy's with softball. Abby's slowly converted the Thomas-Brewers into soccer fans, much to Kristy's dismay.

Maria breaks into a run around the side of the house. She's already out on the grass in the middle of the game when I reach the patio. Maria is usually only interested in swimming, but lately she's become fascinated with Kristy and Abby. She tries to dress like them, talk like them, and act like them (which, understandably, can be rather annoying). But she can never decide which she idolizes more. Today she must be leaning toward Kristy because she's racing across the lawn in jeans and a white turtleneck, her reddish brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

Almost everyone's involved in the soccer game - Kristy, Abby, David Michael, Emily Michelle, Sam, Watson, and even Nannie, who at seventy-seven shows no signs of slowing down. Only Elizabeth and Janet are sitting on the patio, a fair distance apart. They don't get along.

"Hello Shannon," Elizabeth greets me, warmly, standing up and taking the bowl from my hands. "You didn't have to do that."

"You won't thank me when you taste it," I admit and Elizabeth laughs, a lilting, motherly laugh.

"I'll go put this in the fridge," she says, starting for the back door.

Janet turns around in her chair. "Will you get the baby? It's time for her to get up from her nap."

Elizabeth hesitates, then says in a measured voice, "Yes. I can get your baby."

When Elizabeth is inside and the door shut, Janet turns back around and mimics, "Yes. I can get your baby," then mutters something I don't catch. She crosses her arms and slumps down in her chair, angrily blowing a long strand of dark hair off her face. It just falls right back and she has to push it away. Janet has a very pointy chin and sort of buggy eyes, a look further enhanced by all the dark eye make-up she wears. She still hasn't lost all the baby weight, which she carries mostly in her hips and rear. She isn't the girl anyone imagined Sam Thomas to end up with. Elizabeth is very disappointed. She and Kristy blame Janet for what has happened to Sam's life. Sam blames her, too.

I like Janet. But Kristy doesn't want to hear that.

I pull over a patio chair and position it an equal distance between Elizabeth and Janet. I'm used to being a buffer.

"Here she is," Elizabeth sings out, coming through the door with Amy in her arms. She instantly deposits Amy on Janet's lap. Amy's not quite two. She has a mess of wild dark hair and big blue eyes. She looks like Sam. Kristy and Elizabeth are thankful for this. "Aren't you going to play, Shannon?" Elizabeth asks me.

I shake my head. Soccer is the only sport I enjoy, although I'm not good enough for the school team. "No," I answer. "The teams are even. Four on four." I won't admit that sitting and sulking with Janet has more appeal.

Elizabeth knows. She pats my shoulder and leans down and whispers in my ear, "Boys come and go," then she walks to the other end of the patio and takes the cover off the barbecue.

Kristy told her mother! My insides grow hot again. I feel my cheeks, discreetly, hoping to tell by touch if they're red.

Janet spins around to face me. "So, what did the note really say?" she asks.

She told Janet, too! She must have told _everyone._

"I'm sure Kristy quoted it accurately," I reply, stiffly.

"Wow. That's harsh."

I sit up very straight in the chair, crossing my legs and folding my hands over my knee. I stare out at the soccer game. I momentarily consider asking Janet about rejection. Everyone knows Sam doesn't love her, doesn't even attempt to pretend to. She must feel rejected every day, again and again, until it's ingrained deep and permanent, an ache that never goes away. I have never been rejected before. And now I have and it stings of humiliation and failure. I thought Mick loved me. I was a good girlfriend. I gave him his space and expected mine in return. I didn't call too much or nag or ask too many questions. I tried to be the perfect girlfriend. I tried and I tried and still came up lacking.

What is wrong with me?

I shrug my shoulders and respond, coolly, "It's not a big deal." It rolls easily off my tongue, as easily as if it were the truth.

Janet laughs. "Yes, it does." She has a rich, throaty laugh.

I shake my head, then shrug my shoulders again, like I'm shaking off my feelings.

Out on the lawn, the soccer game has halted so Nannie and Watson can catch their breath. Sam stretches his arms and turns in our direction. "Hey Janet!" he bellows. "Get me a soda!"

"Get it yourself!"

"The cooler's right by you foot!"

"I'm busy holding your baby!" Janet snaps back.

"Get me a soda, too, Janet!" David Michael shouts. He's never very nice to Janet either, following Sam's lead.

"Janet," Elizabeth calls from the barbecue, "will you just get up and get your husband a soda?"

Janet rises, mumbling something I can't hear. She hikes Amy onto one hip and kicks the lid off the cooler. Then she slowly carries a single soda can out to David Michael. "I can only carry one," she tells Sam, "because I'm holding your baby," then she walks slowly back to the patio. She takes another soda from the cooler and hurls it at Sam. She has a pretty good arm. Kristy should at least be impressed by that.

"That wasn't necessary, Janet," Elizabeth says.

I don't like everything about the Thomas-Brewers.

The backyard stays quiet, a rarity at this house, except for the dull thudding of Emily Michelle kicking the soccer ball against a tree. Watson joins Elizabeth at the barbecue and hisses something in her ear. She frowns and shakes her head. Nannie retreats inside the house with Janet following behind her.

"Come on out now, Shannon!" Kristy yells, waving me over.

Obediently, I stand and walk out onto the lawn. I wonder if I'd be a bad friend telling Kristy that her brother's a jerk.

Abby runs past and steals the ball from Emily Michelle, who begins to whine. Emily Michelle's six. An _immature_ six, Watson and Elizabeth say. She only just began kindergarten this year. She's a slow learner, but a mostly good kid, if a bit whiny and spoiled. Abby passes the ball to me and I take it across the yard with Maria on my heels. The backyard grows noisy again. We play until Elizabeth calls out, "Five minutes till lunch!" and we agree to take a breather before eating.

Kristy and I lean against the fence. "Can you believe that Janet?" Kristy asks me, hotly. "I can't believe she's my..._sister-in-law_." Kristy cannot forgive Janet because back when Janet was still Janet Gates, she and a friend joined the BSC with the intent of ruining its reputation. That was before I knew Kristy, so I don't hold the incident against Janet. Plus, that was junior high. Things were different then.

I wipe the sweat from my brow. "Kristy," I say, ignoring her outburst. "I can't believe you told your mother about that note." I speak very calmly, the anger from earlier having subsided.

Kristy pulls the scrunchie from her hair and shakes her hair out. "Was it a secret?" she asks, gathering her hair again, wrapping the scrunchie back around it. "You never said not to tell."

"No, I didn't," I agree. It didn't occur to me. I know when to remain silent. I know when secrets are secrets, even when unspoken. But Kristy is not like me and I should know that. "You didn't have to tell Janet though."

"I didn't tell Janet! She overheard me telling Sam!"

Oh, that is so much better. My rejection and humiliation aired out all over Stoneybrook.

"I was upset about it," Kristy explains. "And my mom worries about you, that's all."

"No one has to worry about me."

"But she does."

"Hey, what's going on?" a voice calls out and when I glance up it's Tiffany coming around the side of the house. She's dressed in her horrifying work uniform. It's tiny spandex shorts and a shirt with white, yellow, red, and blue vertical stripes and a matching hat that stands a foot into the air. Her nametag is clipped to the front of the hat. Tiffany doesn't mind the uniform. In fact, I think she _likes_ it. Sometimes I worry she'll be like Claudia Kishi, who dropped out of school in the middle of junior year. Now Claudia works in the mail room of her dad's firm. What if Tiffany does the same? What if she settles for a life at Hot Dog On A Stick, wearing a hideous uniform? At least Claudia works in an office.

"Just in time for lunch!" Watson tells Tiffany. "We made more than enough."

Kristy and I walk over to the patio, where Tiffany's standing. "I thought you worked until six," I say, checking my watch.

"I got off early. I caught a ride back with Marsha."

"Can I try on your hat?" Kristy asks, reaching up for it. Tiffany unhooks the bobby pins holding the hat in place and passes it over to Kristy, who plops it proudly on her head. "Cool. When does Hot Dog On A Stick do its Christmas hiring?"

Kristy would like that uniform. Tiffany and I eye each other, warily. We haven't really spoken since last night. Tiffany looks away and starts picking the rest of the bobby pins from her hair.

"Let me help you," offers Sam, coming up behind her. He pulls a bobby pin from Tiffany's hair. Kristy turns away and watches Abby demonstrate for Maria how to juggle rocks while I stare at Sam Thomas picking through my sister's hair like a monkey. I elbow Kristy sharply in the side. She cries out and gives me a funny look. I nod toward Sam and Tiffany, but Kristy only shrugs, not bothered at all.

"All right, you got them all," I say, loudly, stepping between Tiffany and Sam. I fluff Tiffany's hair and grab the bobby pins out of Sam's hand.

"You know who Tiffany looks like?" Sam asks no one in particular. "Stacey McGill."

"Oh good God," Janet groans, coming through the door with a pitcher of iced tea.

"They could be sisters," Sam continues, ignoring Janet. "Don't you think so, Kristy?"

Kristy glances over. "I guess," she says with a shrug. "Let's go get our plates, Shan. Abby! Time to eat!" Kristy turns and walks inside the house.

I grab Tiffany's wrist and pull her into the house. "Stay away from Sam Thomas," I hiss when we're inside and out of earshot.

"Why?" she asks, lazily.

"Because he's a creep."

"He's harmless," Tiffany replies. "Worry about yourself, Shanny. Leave me alone." She shakes off my grip and flounces into the kitchen.

After filling our plates, Kristy, Abby, and I settle at the old picnic table beside the fence. Maria, David Michael, and Emily Michelle join us. Maria makes sure to sit right next to David Michael. Even though David Michael's only eleven, I think Maria has a bit of a crush on him.

"Is that all you're eating?" I ask Maria, eyeing her plate. It's piled high with pistachio salad and nothing else, except a small chicken wing. "You need a vegetable. I'll go get you some corn on the cob." I slide off the picnic bench and hurry inside the house. I pass Tiffany on the patio, but she snubs me. I'm almost to the kitchen when I hear angry, raised voices drifting from that direction. I do a mental check of who was still outside. Kristy, Abby, Watson, Nannie...who was missing? Elizabeth and Janet! It's wrong to eavesdrop but I lean against the closed door anyway, listening.

"It's bad enough," Janet is shouting, "hearing about Stacey McGill every five goddamn minutes! Now he's harassing _children_!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Elizabeth replies, sharply. "No one's harassing anyone. You really need to learn to control your temper, Janet. Your jealous-streak - "

"I'm not the one with the problem! I'm not the one feeling up the neighbor girl at a goddamn family barbecue!"

"Janet..." Elizabeth says, voice softening its edge.

I leave my post at the door and hurry back outside. I knew it. If Janet's worried, I should be too. Much to my dismay, Sam's seated at the picnic table when I return. Sitting right next to Tiffany, pulling on her hair.

"Knock it off," I growl, sliding back into my seat.

Sam jerks his hand back and narrows his eyes at me, then turns back to Tiffany and resumes their conversation. "Don't mind the Ice Queen," Tiffany whispers to him.

"Where's my corn?" Maria asks me.

"I remembered you don't like it," I lie, scooping some potato salad with my spoon.

"Yes, I do."

"Sorry, I forgot. Eat your pistachio salad, please."

Abby gives me a weird look from across the table, then leans forward and stares down the table at Sam and Tiffany. She raises an eyebrow at me, then at Kristy, who isn't paying attention. I toss my hair back and continue eating, like I haven't noticed either, like it doesn't bother me.

"So..." Abby begins after a long silence. "Bart's parents are going out of town next week. He's having one of his parties."

Kristy groans. She and Bart used to date back in the eighth grade. Nothing too serious and they've remained friendly. Bart's really serious now about Polly Harper, who used to be one of my best friends. They spend most of their time together, alone, now. They're known for being pretty heavy into drugs.

"Bart's parties aren't our kind of parties," I say, speaking for myself and Kristy.

Abby leans forward, checking to make sure the kids aren't listening. "Bart's parties are awesome! Greer, Lindsey, and I are already going. You two have to come too!" Abby insists, then smirks. "Maybe you can stand beside the door all night, holding your fishbowl - _again. _Smart and Sober!" Abby laughs.

Kristy frowns. "The Smart and Sober club is _not_ a joke."

The Smart and Sober club is an organization Kristy and I belong to at school along with seven other kids. We give presentations to elementary, middle, and high schools about drugs and alcohol. We also present at community health-related events. Kristy and I take the club very seriously. Abby and our friends think it's a big joke.

"And that fishbowl is for collecting car keys," Kristy tells Abby. "You know, so you don't get into a _car accident_."

Abby falls silent and starts picking at her macaroni salad. Her dad died in a car accident.

"When is this party?" Sam asks. "It's a Bart Taylor's house?"

Abby shrugs. "Some day next week," she says, quietly, slipping into a mood again.

We hear the side gate swing shut with a loud clang and everyone turns in that direction. Mrs. Stevenson's walking down the side driveway into the backyard. She's dressed in a steel gray pantsuit and very high heels. She probably just came from the office. She's probably been there for days. I don't recall when I last saw her around the neighborhood.

"Hey, Rachel!" Watson greets her. "Fix yourself a plate and pull up a chair." He gestures to the chair between him and Janet. They're all seated at the table under the covered patio.

"Yes, please join us," Elizabeth offers, standing up. "I'll get you an iced tea."

Mrs. Stevenson holds up her hand and smiles, but there's something odd behind it. Strained and distant. "No, no. Not today. I've just come for Abby. Abby!" she calls out to our table. Mrs. Stevenson waves for Abby. "Come on, Abby! It's time to come home!"

Abby has slumped forward over her plate, looking even unhappier than she did a few minutes ago. She slides slowly off the bench and picks up her paper plate. "Bye everyone," she mumbles and walks away without waiting for a response.

"Bye Abby!" Kristy and I call after her. Abby doesn't look back.

"I apologize if Abby's been spending too much time over here," we hear Mrs. Stevenson tell Watson and Elizabeth.

"Not at all. We love having her," Elizabeth insists.

Abby and Mrs. Stevenson leave then, Mrs. Stevenson's arm draped around Abby's waist, leaning in very close. I wonder what's going on.

When lunch is over, Kristy and I wash the dishes with Nannie while Maria continues the soccer game with David Michael and Emily Michelle. Tiffany goes off somewhere with Watson to look at his new gardening book. When Nannie declares our kitchen duties complete, Kristy and I go upstairs to her bedroom to listen to her new Smash tape and so we can try on the make-up Nannie just bought her. Kristy has been a kind of project for me and our friends. Freshman year, we convinced her to wear mascara. Sophomore year it was lipgloss. Junior year, eye shadow. For senior year, we're aiming for lipstick and eyeliner. We've gotten nowhere with Abby.

We're halfway through the tape when Elizabeth pokes her head into the room. "Shannon, your mom just called. She wants you and your sisters to come home immediately."

Kristy and I arch our eyebrows at each other. _Immediately?_ I'm shocked Mom even figured out where we were. Kristy walks me downstairs, where we collect Maria and Tiffany, who are laid out in the living room watching a movie with the rest of the Thomas-Brewers. Except Sam and Janet, who must have already left.

"I won't tell anyone else," Kristy promises me, as we stand at the front door, "about Mick Stone breaking your heart."

"He didn't break my heart," I reply.

"We heard you punch the wall."

"I didn't punch the wall. I fell into it."

Kristy grins. "Okay, if that's the story you're sticking with!" She laughs.

Tiffany and I walk side by side across the street with Maria lagging behind, flipping through some book David Michael loaned her. I try to sound casual when I say to Tiffany, "You need to stay away from Sam Thomas."

The casual tone doesn't work on Tiffany. She throws up her arms. "You're not my mother!" she shouts. "And I'm not doing anything wrong!" She picks up her stride, so that she's several steps ahead of me.

Our mother is waiting for us on the porch. Both her and dad's cars are in the garage, parked alongside mine. I should take a picture. No telling when this will occur again. Mom's wearing a tiny black cocktail dress with black stiletto heels. She turned forty-five last March. Her birthday present to herself was a tummy tuck and breast augmentation. Now everything she wears is tight and low-cut.

"Where have you been?" Mom demands as soon as I turn up the drive. "You're going to make us late!" Mom steps aside so Tiffany can enter the house. "And why are you walking around in that atrocious uniform? All the neighbors can see you!"

"And they can hear you!" Tiffany yells back.

Mom ignores her, which Mom is an expert at. Mom returns her attention to me. "Look at you! You look terrible! Smudged mascara, dirty forehead! We're going to be _late_." Mom throws up her arms, just like Tiffany did earlier.

I step past Mom into the house. I knit my brow. "Late for what?" I ask.

Mom throws her arms up again. "Reg's party! It starts in twenty minutes!"

I cover my mouth with my hand. I completely forgot. Reg is Mick's grandfather and Mom's boss. He owns the real estate company she works for. "Well, I'm not going," I tell Mom. "Mick and I broke up."

Mom's mouth turns down, sympathetically, and for a moment she looks like the mother I once knew, the mother who loved and cared for me. "Oh, Shanny," Mom says, sadly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "So, he went through with it."

I freeze. He went through with it? "What do you mean?" I demand, backing away. My jaw drops. "You _knew_ about this? You knew he was breaking up with me!"

"Reg told me last week. We hoped Mick would change his mind. That's why I didn't say anything," Mom explains, stepping toward me and fussing with my hair. "My poor baby."

I slap her hand away. My own mother knew I was getting dumped before I did! And she didn't say anything! "I can't believe you!" I exclaim. "I'm your daughter! Did you know he sent me a note and flowers? That's how he dumped me!"

Mom clucks her tongue. "Reg thought that would soften the blow. I knew it wouldn't."

My jaw drops even further. This is unbelievable. It's _sickening._ What kind of Mother do I have? I turn away from her and breathe deeply. In and out. In and out. I must remain composed.

"Now hurry up and get changed. You met Mick at one of Reg's parties, maybe you'll meet your next boyfriend at this one!"

I'm never dating anyone ever again. I turn back around, calmer than before. "I'm not going."

Mom rolls her eyes at me, then leans forward to gaze at herself in the hallway mirror. "Fine then, Shanny," she says, patting her layered blonde hair. She looks so much like Tiffany and I. The same blonde hair, blue eyes, and high cheek bones. How is this our mother? "Have it your way, dear. Everyone will think you're too broken up to come. They'll all tell Mick, 'oh, you broke Shannon Kilbourne's heart. Poor Shannon, she can't leave her house.' If that's what you want, that's fine with me. Dad and I will go without you."

I grit my teeth, biting back my anger. "Is Tiffany coming?" I ask in a steady voice.

Mom flicks her wrist, dismissively. "There's nothing about Tiffany I wish to show off." She doesn't even care that Tiffany's leaning against the doorframe into the kitchen, watching and listening.

I stand for a moment, regarding my mother. This _imposter_ claiming to be my mother. I am not weak. I am not helpless or broken. No one will ever say I am. "Fine. I'll go to the party."

"Splendid!" Mom exclaims. "Now get upstairs and change!" She slaps my rear and sends me on my way.


	4. Chapter 4

Mick's grandparents live in a hilly part of Greenvale, about half an hour from Stoneybrook. It's a long, silent drive. We go in Dad's car with Mom in the passenger seat and me sitting sullenly in the back. Mom and Dad aren't speaking at the moment. I don't know what it is this time, or even if they know. They gave up years ago, just stopped speaking and forgot to begin again, and now fall into these patterns with wordless days stretching on, moving into one another. They don't miss each other, I guess.

I smooth the skirt of my dress over my knees. It's a sleeveless violet silk with a soft floral-print and a lighter violet sash around the waist. It doesn't please Mom. _Show everyone what you've got, Shanny, _she says, _I can't show you off if you don't cooperate. _Mom wishes I were malleable like Meg Jardin. Mrs. Jardin has made her into a perfect little Meg mold. The Jardins will be at the party. At least I'll have Meg.

The Stones' house makes ours look like a broken-down shack. Acres and acres of rolling lush green hills surrounded by towering iron gates. Nine bedrooms plus guest quarters and a boat house out back. A private lake. Mom sighs when the house comes into view. "This could have been yours someday, Shanny. If only you'd kept your claws in Mickey."

"Who's Mickey?" Dad asks. "Mickey Mouse?" Dad chuckles at his own joke.

I don't answer. Instead, I gaze out the window as we pass through the gates, watching the silhouettes of the trees and the lake glistening in the moonlight move slowly past. Standing on the porch, waiting for the maid to open the door, Mom quickly readjusts her breasts, ensuring they are properly in place, on display. Then she reaches out and readjusts mine. I jump back, shoving her hands away. I can't believe her. My own mother, feeling me up on the front porch.

When the door opens, we turn ourselves on, smiling widely, pretending we glow. Matching fake smiles for a fake family. As soon as the maid takes our coats, Dad makes a beeline for the den, where the bar's set up. I can see Mr. Jardin already in there, throwing back his fourth or fifth martini. He and Dad work at the same law firm. They're best friends and golf buddies. They see each other more in one month than I see Dad in a year. They probably wish they could rent some bachelor pad together, spend all their time golfing and drinking, and forget about the rest of us.

"Kathalynn, my dear!" a voice bellows. It's Mr. Stone, Mick's grandfather, coming toward us across the foyer.

"Reg!" Mom exclaims in this false excited way she has. No one ever calls her "Kathalynn". She is simply Kathy.

Mr. Stone kisses Mom's cheek then turns to me. "Shannon, my dear," he says in a much less exuberant tone, clutching my shoulder firmly. "Tough luck, eh? Onto bigger and better things! For everyone!" And then he's gone, hurrying to the men in the den.

I keep my smile on. Nothing and no one will crack it tonight.

"Ah, there's Paula!" Mom cries, entwining her fingers through mine and tugging me toward the formal living room, where Mrs. Jardin and Meg are talking to a tall elderly woman. "Paula!" Mom drops my hand as she sweeps into the room.

"Kathy!" Mrs. Jardin exclaims, breathlessly, like Mom's appearance is a surprise. They greet one another with an air kiss.

"You look splendid," Mom announces. I guess "splendid" is her new word.

Mrs. Jardin has her black hair piled on top of her head. She's wearing a long champagne-colored dress with several ropes of pearls around her neck. Next to her, Meg has her black hair loose and fluffy. She's also wearing ropes of pearls and a white short-sleeved dress with tiny blue flowers and a barely there skirt. They look more like older sister and younger sister than mother and daughter. I hope no one thinks that of Mom and I. In fact, I hope no one guesses that we're related.

"You look lovely, Kathy," Mrs. Jardin gushes. "As do you, Shannon."

Mom smiles and smooths the front of her dress. "Dr. Irving works magic," she says. She and Mrs. Jardin share a knowing laugh. Dr. Irving is their plastic surgeon. He gave Mrs. Jardin and Meg a mother-daughter discount on their breast augmentations. Mom wishes I would agree to the same.

Mrs. Jardin introduces us to the tall, elderly woman, Miss Sherwick, who turns out to be a friend of Mick's grandmother. When the introductions are over, Mrs. Jardin smiles, slyly at me, "Now, Shannon, please share with us all the details of the big break-up."

Horrified, my smile almost falters. I shift my eyes toward Meg, who stands silently beside her mother, no help at all.

"This is the poor girl?" inquires Miss Sherwick, surprised. She looks at me, sympathetically. "You're all anyone is talking about."

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration," I reply, pleasantly, although I'm dying inside. Silently, I take back every kind word I ever uttered about Mick's grandparents. What horrid, horrid people! Sharing - and no doubt, delighting - in my humiliation and rejection. "It isn't a big deal," I insist. "The relationship ran its course. The distance, you know."

"Oh, yes, I imagine the distance was quite a strain," Mrs. Jardin agrees. "Especially on him. Young men are like that. Fickle and restless. That's why I tell my Meg, 'keep your legs together and don't believe them.'"

"Keeping her legs together isn't a problem for Shannon," Mom replies, like I'm not standing right beside her. "If anything, she needs to be a bit warmer. No eighteen-year-old boy wants to date a popsicle."

"I hear he already has someone new," Mrs. Jardin tells Mom. "A sorority girl."

Mom nods. "She's supposed to be gorgeous."

My heart sinks. There's someone else? Mick broke up with me because he found someone better? And I'm the last to know. The last to know, standing here smiling like an idiot. If there is anything worse than invisible, that is what I am. Non-existent. I am non-existent.

"Let's go for a walk," Meg suggests, loudly, finally stepping away from her mother. No one pays attention. Mom and Mrs. Jardin go on, listing my flaws and attributes. Meg hooks her arm through mine, leaning in close as she ushers me out of the room. "I had no idea," she whispers. "I just heard fifteen minutes ago. Why didn't you tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell," I reply, almost shakily, my composure beginning to tremble.

"We need some air," Meg announces, steering me toward the veranda. "Did he really send you flowers and a _note_? That's what Mr. Stone told my mother. He thinks his Mickey's quite _inventive._"

"The flowers weren't even his idea," I reply, leaning back against the stone railing, tossing my head back and inhaling deeply.

"Do Greer and Lindsey know?"

"No. Just Kristy and Abby. And Tiffany and Maria. And Kristy's family," I tell her. "And apparently, the entire town of Greenvale."

Meg makes a face. "Ugh. Tough break, Shan." She swings a leg over the stone railing, straddling it, flashing me with her thong. "Don't tell Greer and Linds the truth. They'll only say it's because you wouldn't put out."

I shrug. "Everyone's going to find out anyway."

"You're amazing, Shan," Meg says. "You stay so calm and together. I almost throw up whenever Mom starts beating up on me like that." Meg looks back toward the house, at the lighted windows and the party guests milling behind them. "Stupid old cows. Prancing us around like their pretty little ponies."

I actually laugh. Meg talks so big when her mother's not around.

"Accessories," I say. "I'm a handbag. What are you?"

"A crutch."

Maybe Meg isn't as dumb as everyone says.

"You're so strong, Shannon. I wish I were strong like you," Meg tilts her head back. "Look at the stars. Don't you miss the astronomy club?"

"Sometimes, I guess," I answer, looking up. I used to love astronomy. I lost interest a couple years ago. Meg stayed with it. She thinks astronomy's as romantic as French and Italian. Meg has a lot of romantic ideals.

"Are you ready to go back inside?" Meg asks. "There were some cute college boys hanging out by the buffet earlier."

I shake my head. "No. You go on. I'm going to stay out here. Don't tell my mom where I am."

Meg attempts to swing her leg back over the railing, but miscalculates and tumbles sideways. I get another eyeful. Mrs. Jardin would be appalled.

After Meg dusts herself off and returns to the party, I lean forward over the railing, staring down at Mrs. Stones' rose bushes. The light from the veranda barely reaches them. Some are still in bloom. I'm not sure how long I stare at the roses. A while. All my mother's words keep running through my mind, turning over and over. Hers and Mrs. Jardin's. I think of everyone speaking of me without knowing me. An anecdote to tell at fancy parties. That is what I've become. That poor girl who was dumped with tulips and a note. Not very pretty, not like the new one. Smart and cold.

"I see I'm not the only one suffocating in there," a male voice booms behind me.

I spin around, startled. I don't recognize him. He's tall with wavy, light brown hair. At least twenty-five. Very good-looking. _Very._

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says, walking over to the stone railing. He looks back at the house. "Man, I hate this place."

"You don't think it's beautiful?" I ask, genuinely surprised. The Stones' house has been featured in magazines. Everyone admires it.

"I think it's disturbing and ostentatious."

I laugh. "_Disturbing. _You think the house is _disturbing_?"

"This isn't a house. It's a fortress."

I laugh again, having no affection left for the Stones. "Have you been to their house on the Vineyard?" I ask. I haven't, but I've seen pictures. Mick promised to take me someday.

The man gags. "Once. Years ago." He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "You aren't family, are you?"

"No. I don't even like them. My mother forced me to come."

"So did mine! Twisted my arm," He rubs his arm like it's sore. "My mother and Marj Stone work together at the Greenvale Historical Society. Do you live in town?"

"No. I'm from Stoneybrook."

"That's where I live now. Are you at Stoneybrook University? Or are you just home for the weekend?"

For a moment, I'm puzzled by his question. Then I realize - he thinks I'm in college! I start to correct him, but change my mind. I like his smile and his company. He'll walk away if he learns the truth. "Stoneybrook University," I tell him, which isn't technically a lie. I've attended Stoneybrook University the past three summers.

"That's where I went! I graduated about four years ago. Have you had Moody yet?"

I shake my head. I have no idea who Moody is.

"Good! Don't take him. He teaches political science and he's awful. He walks around with this huge thermos of coffee and slurps it every three words," He demonstrates the slurping noise for me. "He use to smoke in class, but the administration nipped that in the bud."

I laugh. That sounds like something my father would say. _Nipped in the bud._ But it wouldn't sound cute coming from my father. I lean back against the railing and toss my hair over my shoulder. I'm thankful Meg left.

"Who have you had?" he asks, looking genuinely interested.

I tick off the classes and instructors I've taken at Stoneybrook U. There's only four, so I'm a little vague on details. I mention the Drs. Dupree, Lindsey's grandparents, who teach at Stoneybrook U. I've never taken any of their classes, but I know what they teach and I've read some of their books. The man relates a few more humorous stories about Stoneybrook U. faculty and issues more warnings about professors and an odd, sketchy one about the couch in the student lounge. He keeps me laughing and I'm so grateful to him for that. Maybe we'll stand out here all night and I'll never learn what's being said about me inside.

He grins and smacks himself on the head. "I'm such a dork," he tells me. "I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Wesley Ellenburg." He sticks out his hand.

I take it and grip it firmly. "I'm - "

"There you are!" my mother screeches, sailing onto the veranda in a huff. "I've searched everywhere. Meg said she lost you ages ago. Come on, we're leaving!" Mom yanks my arm and pulls me away.

I'm so shocked I almost forget to be mortified. "I'm sorry!" I yell to Wesley. "Nice meeting you!" Then he disappears from sight as I'm dragged into the house.

Oh, well. He was too old for me anyway.

Dad's waiting in the foyer. He appears to be wearing someone's drink. Tiny beads drip from his hair onto the shoulders of his blue suit jacket. I don't even ask. I don't want to know. I follow behind Mom, tripping across the loose gravel driveway in her black stilettos. She fumes silently the entire drive home. No one says anything.

When we get home, Mom stomps upstairs and slams her bedroom door. I hear the lock turn. Dad doesn't even attempt to convince her to let him in. He retreats down the hall to the guest room and slams the door. It's only ten o' clock, but already Tiffany and Maria's bedroom doors are shut and no light spills out from beneath them. I open each carefully, checking that they're inside. Then I go back downstairs to check the doors and windows, ensuring they're locked. Then I do a quick survey of the kitchen. Surprisingly, Tiffany and Maria remembered to clean up after themselves. No dishes or glasses are on the counter or in the sink. Satisfied, I climb the stairs to my bedroom. I change into pajamas, brush my teeth, and wash my face.

I've not been in bed long when I hear my door creak open. "Shanny?" Tiffany whispers. "Are you awake?"

I roll over to face the door. "Yes. I'm awake."

Tiffany is a shadowy figure slipping into my room, as my eyes adjust to the dark. She runs around the side of the bed and climbs in with me, propping herself up on an elbow. "Was it horrible?" she asks.

"No, it wasn't."

"Tell me the truth."

I'm silent, hesitating. "Mom and Mrs. Jardin were pretty awful," I finally admit. No details. Tiffany knows what I mean. "I told Meg they treat us like accessories. Their belongings to parade around. I said I was a handbag." I laugh, slightly. "Meg said she was a crutch."

"Meg's a puppet," says Tiffany. "A puppet in a gilded cage."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing at Tiffany. "Maybe," I say, seriously. "All in all, it wasn't so bad." I don't tell Tiffany about Wesley. That's for me. Just for me. One of the little things about myself I don't wish for anyone else to know. Little but important. As important as the big things I keep for myself. Maybe it's silly. And maybe that's why I won't tell. Like so many things people will never say about me, they will never say, _Silly Shannon, feeling better about her rejected self after an innocent flirtation with a too old man. I thought she was assured and strong? _No, I am the only one who will ever say that, and I'll only say it to myself, and then I'll bury it deep.


	5. Chapter 5

Kristy and Abby aren't speaking. Another of their little tiffs. These happen occasionally, linger on for a few days, then blow over as easily as they came. I'm not sure exactly what it's about this time. On Tuesday, they're sitting across from each other at lunch, but pointedly ignoring one another. At least Abby is. She's making quite an effort at ignoring all of us, bent low over an open binder, furiously scribbling something I can't read. I wonder what her excuse is this time. Abby always has an excuse.

"All right, ladies, I just got the four-one-one from Miss Polly Harper," Greer announces, coming up behind me and setting her lunch sack on the table.

Meg, who has her sandwich poised in front of her mouth, gapes and blinks at Greer. "You have the _what_?" she asks.

Greer heaves an exasperated sigh. "The information, Meg," she explains.

"Why didn't you just say that?"

"Meg, quit testing my patience, please," Greer slides into the seat beside me and folds her hands. "All right, as I was saying, ladies, I spoke to a Miss Polly Harper in the bathroom five minutes ago. She informed me that Mr. and Mrs. Taylor left for Florida this morning at six o' clock. They will not return until late Friday evening. Kyle is staying with friends. That only means one thing, ladies..." Greer throws up her arms, "Party!"

"You have a lot of interesting experiences in bathrooms, don't you?" Kristy comments, swirling her spoon around in her yogurt. She doesn't look the least bit excited.

Neither am I. "It's a school night," I remind Greer.

Greer tosses her head back, dramatically and laughs. "Oh, serious, studious Shannon," she coos.

My eyes meet Kristy's across the table. She shrugs and continues eating. I ignore Greer and unwrap my granola bar.

"Well, I'm in," says Lindsey. "My grandparents are going to a concert at the university. They'll never know I'm gone."

Meg purses her lips in this prissy manner she has. "I have to agree with Shannon," she informs us. "It's a school night and my mother will never let me out. You know she has to approve all my social engagements."

Greer waves her hand dismissively. "Just tell her you're studying at my house."

"They'll be boys there," Lindsay sing songs. She sticks out her bottom lip in a exaggerated pout. "Please, Meggie-poo?"

Meg shakes her head, whipping Kristy in the face with her hair. "_Drunk_ boys," Meg says with a scowl. "Who needs _drunk_ boys?" Meg would join the Smart and Sober club if she wasn't too embarrassed. _What if people laugh at me?_ she always says.

"Suit yourself," says Greer, turning away from her. "Abby? You in?"

"Of course I'm in," Abby answers, speaking for the first time this period. "That's why I'm doing my homework now. I have to get caught up."

"That reminds me," I tell Abby, pulling my messenger bag onto my lap. I unzip the smallest pocket. "I made myself some flashcards for next week's minerals test. I made an extra set for you." I set the stack of cards, held together with a yellow rubberband, on the table beside Abby's binder. Each card has a mineral name with facts we have to know - luster, hardness, fracture, cleavage, uses, etc. Plus there's an accompanying photo. I took pictures of all the minerals on Friday and had them developed over the weekend.

Abby thumbs through the stack. "Awesome. Thanks, Shannon! Now I can definitely go to the party tonight!"

I manage not to frown in disapproval at that last comment. I point to the top card, which is halite. "And see, I've put on these little helpful tips. Halite is rock salt. It looks like a lot of the other minerals, but if you lick it, it'll taste salty," I explain.

"I wonder how many other people have licked that rock," says Kristy.

"It's not a rock. It's a mineral," I correct.

Lindsey chuckles. "Please don't lick that rock, Abby," she says, tossing her long blonde braid over her shoulder. "Good old Shannon, always taking care of somebody."

Yes. Good old Shannon. But if I don't, who else will?

* * *

At a quarter to seven, Kristy and I are walking to Bart Taylor's house carrying our fishbowl. We debated for over an hour while doing our calculus homework about whether or not to come. Finally, we agreed that as representatives of the Smart and Sober club, we have an obligation to our classmates. Or at least to Abby, Greer, and Lindsey. If something bad happened to them, I could never forgive myself.

Kristy and I are early. When Bart answers the door, he's surprised to see us. In fact, he looks slightly shocked. "Oh, hey!" he says, holding open the door and stepping aside. "I didn't think you guys would come." Bart gives us each a brief half-hug, the kind you give people who used to be your friends, but aren't really anymore, but you still pretend.

"We're here on official business," Kristy explains, importantly, lifting up the fishbowl.

"Shannon!" Polly exclaims, sweeping into the room. Pudgy Polly, we used to call her behind her back. Since she started dating Bart, she's lost all her baby fat. Now she's almost too thin. I think it's all the drugs. Polly and I used to be close. We all grew up together, us and Greer, Meg, and Lindsey. It's strange how quickly things change, how one day you see someone and it feels like the first time in a long time, and all you think is, _we're not friends anymore,_ and it feels heavy, like a ton of bricks dropped on your back. That's how I feel whenever I see Polly.

"Hi Polly," I greet her with a hug. She hugs me back, arms tight around my neck. It's startling. I wonder if she misses me, misses the kind of friends we used to be.

"I'm glad you're not too good for us!" Polly tells me, holding my hand. "Do you want a beer? Seth's setting up the kegs."

"Where'd you get the kegs?" Kristy asks.

"Don't tell her, Pol! She'll turn them in and get them busted!" Bart cries. Everyone laughs, even though we know he's not really joking. And even though we know Kristy _would_ turn them in.

"We're not really here for the party," Kristy explains to Polly. She lifts the fishbowl again. "We're going to collect everyone's keys, so no one drives drunk. Don't worry, we'll stay in the foyer, out of everyone's way. "

Polly looks momentarily confused, like she can't fathom why anyone would come to a party to stand in the foyer, collecting keys. But after a few seconds, Polly grins. "This is great! We don't have to be responsible for anyone! Thanks, Kristy, Shannon. I love that do-gooder attitude!" Polly spins around and practically skips out of the room, probably heading for the kegs. Bart punches Kristy and me in the shoulder, then turns and follows Polly.

The house fills up pretty soon afterward. I think all four high school grades are crowded onto the first floor, spilling up the stairs and into the backyard. A surprising amount of kids are willing to drop their keys in our fishbowl. Of course, several seem to be under the impression we're the valet. "But you've already parked your car," Kristy keeps pointing out, but no one seems to get it, so we stop bothering. Greer lives just up the street and she, Abby, and Lindsey walk over together. They laugh when they find Kristy and I standing in the foyer.

"What are you, the security detail?" Lindsey asks.

"Are you going to stand here all night?" asks Greer. She's wearing black linen pants with a white and black-striped off-the-shoulder sweater and a black beret. Greer considers herself very classic and international. Sometimes I agree.

Kristy and I shrug.

"Then what's the point in standing out here? If you're not here when people are ready to leave?"

Kristy and I exchange a glance. We hadn't exactly discussed that. We've collected keys at parties before, but at parties where the parents were expected home by a certain hour. Bart's parents aren't coming home. The party may go on forever.

Kristy clears her throat. "We're making a statement just by being here," she says.

Greer and Lindsey laugh. "You're too much, Kristy," Lindsey tells her, then she and Greer link arms and walk off, into the party.

Abby isn't laughing anymore. She looks at us, sympathetically. "It's a nice effort," she says to me and to Kristy. I guess their little tiff is over. "Don't leave without me, okay? Walk me home."

Kristy nods. "Sure."

Abby grins. "Great! Because I have no worries tonight!" Then she takes off into the crowd after Greer and Lindsey.

There's a short lull in new arrivals, then the doorbell rings and someone starts banging on the door. I answer it and Claudia Kishi's standing on the front porch wearing a flared orange skirt and orange fishnet stockings with a black glittery body suit. Kristy and I share a brief, surprised look. Claudia never attended SDS and barely knows Bart. But as so often happens with unchaperoned parties, everyone and anyone shows up.

"Hi Claud," Kristy greets her a bit coolly. They've known each other all their lives, but their friendship has fizzled since the start of high school. It's understandable. Different people living different lives. I know Kristy is very disappointed in Claudia for dropping out of school. It's not something Kristy - nor I - can comprehend.

"Hey girls!" Claudia exclaims. If she detects Kristy's coolness, she doesn't let on. "Abby called and invited me. She said this was going to be a wild party! You know Erica Blumberg, right?"

A girl with messy brown hair pokes her head around the doorframe. "Hey! Where's the beer?"

Kristy looks very disapproving. "Hi Erica," she says, tightly, and holds out the fishbowl. "We're collecting car keys, so none of you drunks end up splattered on the side of the road."

I elbow Kristy in the side. We're not supposed to act judgmental. But Claudia and Erica don't mind. They laugh. "Don't worry about us," says Erica. "We have a designated driver. I already gave her my keys."

A girl with shoulder length blonde hair and a neon green headband comes into view behind Erica. Claudia jerks a thumb back at her. "This is Lauren Hoffman," she tells me.

"Lauren doesn't drink anymore," Erica explains.

I am wary of people who don't drink "anymore". There's always a very good - and often frightening - reason behind it.

"Later!" calls Claudia, as she disappears into the crowd with Erica and Lauren trailing behind her.

Kristy sighs, heavily. "I don't know what's become of the BSC. What our old clients must think," Kristy shakes her head, clutching the fishbowl to her chest. "Remember when Jessi threw that tomato at me outside Stoneybrook Cinema last spring?"

I stifle a giggle. That was kind of funny.

"This is lame," Kristy announces. "I feel like a complete idiot." Her eyes search the foyer until they land on a small table. She slides the fishbowl underneath it. "Let's go find some sodas."

I loop my arm through hers. "Don't lose me," I instruct as we push into the crowded living room. We make our way into the kitchen, where we find two orange sodas in the refrigerator. We stand around awhile, drinking our sodas and chatting, listening to the pounding music pulsating from the living room. Kristy's raiding the freezer, searching for ice cream when Claudia and Erica's neon green headbanded friend wanders into the kitchen.

"Have you seen Erica or Claudia?" she asks.

"Nope," replies Kristy from inside the freezer. She comes out with a gallon of chocolate chocolate chip. "Are they already passed out somewhere?"

"They better not be! I'd like to go home now."

Kristy glances at her watch. "Uh...Lauren? You've been here for forty-five minutes."

"Claudia didn't tell me there'd be drugs at this party! I'm planning a career in politics. I can't have a drug scandal hanging over my head! There are some kids snorting cocaine off the pool table!"

Kristy's eyes nearly pop out of her head. "_Cocaine_," she squeaks, just as I gasp.

I recover quickly. "We need to round everyone up," I say, calmly. "I'll search downstairs. You two look upstairs. We'll meet back in the foyer."

Kristy, who has never taken orders well from others, simply nods. We part ways in the living room. First, I check the dining room, then the den. I'm crossing toward the game room when a group of boys bump into me, sloshing beer down the front of my blouse. They don't stop to apologize, just continue on, laughing. My mind flashes briefly to the man from the Stones' party - Wesley. He would never spill beer on me. And if he did, he'd apologize, _fervently_. What am I doing here? We may be the same age, but I don't belong with these people.

None of my friends are in the game room. No one appears to be snorting cocaine off the pool table either. I find Claudia and Erica in Mr. Taylor's study, sitting on the leather couch, throwing their heads forward and back, laughing hysterically. I wave smoke out of my face, as I cross the room to them.

"Claudia! Have you seen Abby or Greer?" I ask, loudly over their gales of insane laughter.

Claudia ignores me, or maybe she doesn't notice me. She continues laughing and talking in gasps of breath, "And then...the kitten...was in the closet!" She clutches her stomach and leans forward.

My mouth falls open slightly. "Claudia! Have you been smoking pot?" I demand. This is unbelievable. They've been here an hour and already they look stoned out of their minds.

Claudia looks up at me. "Yes! Hi Shannon! I'll get you some. Where's Jason?" Claudia stretches out an arm to the small crowd in the study. "Jason! Jason, where are you?" she shouts.

I ignore her and focus my attention on Erica. "Your friend wants to leave. You better find her before she leaves without you. She has your keys."

For some reason, this is hilarious. Erica throws her head back and howls. "She can't drive! She doesn't even have her learner's permit!" Erica tumbles off the couch.

I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. I take a deep breath. "Okay. Stay here. Don't move from this couch. I'll be back for you," I tell them, sternly.

They aren't listening. They don't even notice when I turn and walk away. I won't even pause to reflect on the stupidity of bringing an unlicensed designated driver to a party. I continue my search for Abby, Greer, and Lindsey. We're probably passing in the crowd and I can't see them. My calls of their names don't carry over the music. Then, in Mrs. Taylor's crafts room, I discover someone I wasn't expecting.

Tiffany. Stretched out on the pink chenille couch, wearing a periwinkle halter dress that barely covers anything it should. And her legs are draped over the lap of Sam Thomas. And his hand is massaging her thigh.

"What are you doing?" I screech, flying into the room.

Tiffany jumps, startled.

"How did you get in here?" I demand.

"Uh...through the front door?" she replies with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. She doesn't seem at all bothered that I've caught her.

I glare at her, then turn on Sam. "And what are you doing here?" I demand, furiously. "This is a high school party!"

Sam shrugs, but doesn't answer, like I'm not worth his time.

I grab Tiffany's arm and yank her up off the couch. "Wait for me in the foyer!" I order and shove her toward the door. "Go!"

People are staring. I think if they weren't Tiffany would argue, but her chest is already reddening, the color creeping up her neck. She whirls around and stomps out of the crafts room, shoulders squared, head held high and proud.

Sam stands, so I must look up at him instead of down. He's a lot taller than me. I stand as straight as possible and am thankful I wore heels. "Look, I don't know what game you're playing with my sister, but you better knock it off. She's _fifteen._ And you're married with a kid. Stay away from my sister."

Sam smiles down at me, indulgently. "Or else what? You'll call Janet?" he asks, then laughs.

"Or else, I'll killyou," I reply, then turn around and walk away, attempting to imitate Tiffany's assured stride. Sam's still laughing behind me.

It's not just all the bodies crammed together that's making me hot. My insides are boiling. I clench my fists and keep walking, even though I feel like falling to my knees and screaming. Tiffany and I take one step forward and two steps back. I never know who she'll be from moment to moment, the sister I need or the sister I must control.

Kristy's waiting in the foyer. Tiffany's not there, but Abby is, sitting on a chair by the door. "Did Tiffany come through here?" I ask Kristy, as soon as I come into the foyer.

"She left. She said she wasn't walking home with you," Kristy replies. "I found Abby. She's mostly sober. I have no idea where Greer and Lindsey are."

"I found Claudia and Erica. They're as high as a couple kites. I left them in the study. Where's that blonde girl?"

Kristy rolls her eyes. "She ran into her ex-boyfriend and starting screaming at him. She was hitting him with an umbrella when I left."

"You know she can't drive."

"She doesn't have a license?" Kristy exclaims. She throws up her arms. "Claudia would bring a designated driver who can't actually drive! What is _wrong_ with that girl? Dropping out of school, smoking pot, riding in cars with unlicensed drivers! She was such a responsible baby-sitter!"

I walk toward the front door. "Let's just leave. Greer and Lindsey can take care of themselves. Come on, Abby."

Abby stands, sways a little, then steps through the front door. "Thanks for not leaving me," she says, a bit too loudly.

"You're welcome."

"What about all these keys?" Kristy asks, pointing at our fishbowl underneath the table.

"Leave them. I'll call the cops when I get home. They'll take care of things," I answer, then follow Abby through the front door.

The cool air is a welcome reprieve from the heat inside the house. The three of us walk down Edgerstone Drive, slowly for Abby, who keeps stumbling over phantom objects. It's only nine-thirty, but already the streets are dark and deserted. It feels much later. It seemed longer that I was inside Bart's house, feeling old and out-of-place. We stop once for Abby, so she can puke in Amanda Kerner's rosebushes. Kristy holds her hair back and not even arches a single disapproving eyebrow at me. She doesn't say, _See, Abby? You should have listened to me._ I'm proud of Kristy for showing that bit of self-restraint.

"I wish things didn't have to change," Kristy says, quietly, when we turn onto McLelland Road. "I wish people stayed the same."

"You mean, you wish we didn't have to grow up?"

"I don't know. Maybe," Kristy says, folding her arms over her chest. She bows her head, so that her brown hair falls forward, obscuring my view of her in the dim light of the street lamps.

"I guess I know what you mean."

Ahead of us, Abby starts crying.

"What's wrong?" Kristy exclaims, alarmed, hurrying up beside her.

I fall into step on Abby's other side. "Abby?" I ask, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Abby shakes it off. "Never mind," she says, still in that too loud voice. She takes off, running up McLelland Road, away from us. She runs in sort of a zig-zag, stumbling once or twice.

Kristy and I stop to watch her. "What's the deal with her lately?" Kristy asks me.

"I have no idea," I answer, truly puzzled.

Abby disappears into the night. In the distance, we hear a front door slam. Kristy and I resume walking, not sure of what to do or say. I consider telling Kristy about Tiffany and Sam. Is there a point? Kristy won't listen. Sam is a victim. Everything wrong in his life is Janet's fault. Kristy has blinders on when it comes to her brother.

Kristy and I stop outside her house. "Don't call the cops yet," she tells me. "I'm going back for Claudia."

"Want me to go with you?"

Kristy shakes her head. "No, it's okay. You should check on Abby. See you tomorrow, Shannon." Kristy waves then walks to the side driveway, where she keeps her car hidden behind the gate.

I walk two houses down to the Stevensons'. I pound on the front door, ring the doorbell four times, call out Abby's name. The lights are on inside, but Abby doesn't answer.


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning, I drive across the street and park outside Kristy's house. Tiffany's relinquished her permanent shotgun to Maria. She's still mad about last night, about my embarrassing her. She deserves a little embarrassment. She doesn't need to be flirting with a married man. Kristy's battered green station wagon's in the middle of the driveway with the back doors wide open. She's leaning in the driver's side, her legs sticking out. I tap the horn to get her attention.

Kristy climbs out of the car and shuts all the doors, then grabs her backpack off the ground and runs for my car. "Hey!" she cries, opening the back door and hopping in. She slides to the middle seat beside Tiffany and latches her belt.

"What were you doing in your car?" I ask, releasing my foot off the brake and steering the car back onto the street. I move at a moderate crawl since we're only going as far as Abby's house.

From the rearview mirror, I see Kristy make a disgusted face. "Claudia and Erica threw up in it," she says. "Claudia threw up all over the dashboard. Erica threw up in the backseat, but mostly on Lauren's shoes. Watson and I had to clean it out when I got home." Kristy makes a gagging noise. "I'm never doing Claudia Kishi another favor. _Ever._"

"You cleaned up their puke? Gross!" cries Tiffany.

"What was I supposed to do? Let it sit overnight, dry and harden, then call them over to clean it up this afternoon? Of course, that may have improved the inside decor."

I tap the car horn for Abby. "Let's not talk about vomit anymore," I suggest.

Tiffany ignores me. "You could tell everyone your air freshener is eau d'upchuck," she tells Kristy.

Kristy laughs and I know she has a disgusting reply ready, but thankfully, Abby's sprinting across the front yard, and Kristy's attention shifts to her. Abby opens the back door and climbs in next to Kristy. "Let's roll!" she shouts, slamming the door.

I turn around in my seat. "How are you feeling?" I ask.

Abby grins. "Fine. I guess I didn't drink as much as I thought," she answers.

Kristy snorts. "No, you just threw it all up."

"Is there anyone who _didn't_ throw up last night?" Tiffany asks.

"I thought we weren't going to talk about throwing up anymore?" I say.

There's a short silence. Then Abby says, "Okay. I have to know. Who else threw up?"

Kristy spends the rest of the drive rehashing the details of last night. A lot of vomit jokes fly around the backseat. And the front seat once Maria joins in. I turn up the radio and tune them out. It's not that I don't have a sense of humor. Vomit jokes just aren't my thing. I'm glad when we finally reach SDS. Plus, I find a great parking spot right by the high school building.

Tiffany and Maria take off in search of their friends. Often, Tiffany hangs around us in the morning, but she's busy giving me the cold shoulder today. Kristy, Abby, and I walk toward the building in a tight cluster. We spot Greer, Meg, and Lindsey leaning against one of the outside planters, waiting for us. Greer's wearing dark sunglasses and a scowl. Kristy and I exchange a nervous glance. We swore not to tell anyone that I phoned the cops last night.

"Hello," I say, breezily, coming to a stop in front of my friends.

"Why are you wearing sunglasses?" Abby asks Greer.

"I'm a little bleary-eyed this morning, ladies," Greer answers.

"What happened to you guys last night?" Lindsey demands.

"I had to drive Claudia and her friends home," Kristy explains. "And Shannon walked Abby home. Why?"

"One of Bart's neighbors called the cops! They came and busted up the party! And no one could find their keys!"

I shift my messenger bag to my other shoulder, attempting to appear nonchalant. "Did the cops call your parents?" I ask.

Greer's scowl intensifies. "No. My mom saw the cop cars and came looking for me. The cops let her take me and Lindsey home. I'm grounded for a week! And my parents took away my car. Plus, I feel like crap on a stick."

Lindsey narrows her eyes and glares at Greer, then looks over at me. "My grandparents grounded me for _three_ weeks and took away my car and my phone _and_ my television," she tells us, bitterly.

"We rode the bus this morning. It was not fun."

Kristy gives them her best _I told you so_ look. Kristy can say so much with a single look. It's amazing. Lindsey glares back at her.

"Do we know someone with a chauffer?" asks Meg, standing on her toes and looking over Abby's shoulder.

Kristy, Abby, and I turn around. A black Mercedes with tinted back windows has pulled up in front of the school. The driver is a man in a black chauffer cap. He doesn't get out of the car. The back door opens from the inside and a teenage girl steps out. She's wearing a SDS uniform and carrying a white tote bag on her arm. She kicks the door shut and strides toward us. She's tall and slender with blunt cut blonde hair that swings when she walks. I've never seen her before.

Or maybe I have.

"Is that...Sally White?" I ask, tilting my head to the side.

"Oh _God_, I hope not," groans Greer.

Sally White was our classmate in eighth grade. She lived in London before Stoneybrook and about a dozen other places before that. Her mother's supposedly some kind of movie star, although I've never heard of her. Sally caused a lot of problem within our group at the beginning of eighth grade. She picked favorites, lavished attention on them, then discarded them and moved on. The chosen one, we called them. I was chosen for a single day. Sally went through our whole group, everyone except Lindsey. When she was done with us, she moved to a new group. She caused a lot of hurt and sour feelings that year. She moved away the following summer. I hoped to never see her again.

And now she's passing us, wearing our uniform again, headed into our school.

"Hey! Sally White!" Greer calls out. Greer has no self-control.

The girl spins around and lowers her mirrored sunglasses. "Do I know you?" she inquires in a cool voice.

Ugh. It _is _Sally White.

Greer places a hand on her hip. "I'm Greer Carson. Don't you remember me?" she says, haughtily.

Sally's eyes scan Greer up and down. "Yyyyes," she answers in this weird, dragging voice.

Greer wasn't expecting that. "Oh. Well," she says. She has both hands on her hips now. "I guess you remember Meg, Shannon, and Lindsey then."

Sally sizes us all up. "Meg, Shannon, yes," she replies, then turns her gaze to Lindsey. "Who are you again?"

Lindsey's mouth puckers like she's tasted a lemon. She starts fidgeting with the end of her braid. "We never really got to know each other," she says, weakly.

"What was wrong with you?"

Lindsey doesn't answer. I think she's always wondered that herself.

Meg steps in. "She had these braces," Meg explains, gesturing to her mouth. "Big silver ones. And she hadn't had her ears pinned back yet - "

"Meg!" I exclaim and Sally laughs.

"So, you're back," Greer says.

"I guess I am," Sally replies, then turns on her heel and saunters into the building.

Lindsey's biting her lip, like she might start to cry. Meg should be apologizing, but instead she's gaping at me, puzzled, attempting to figure out what she'd done wrong this time. Kristy and Abby just look confused.

"Who was _that_?" asks Kristy, wrinkling her nose.

"No one you want to know," I answer. "Trust me."

* * *

Sally White shows up in three of my morning classes - World Literature, microbiology, and Italian. Thankfully, in World Literature, she's assigned a seat in the way back. I sit up front. But in microbiology, Dr. Clark sticks her at Kristy's and my table. Today we have a review for tomorrow's exam, so Sally spends the entire period reading a fashion magazine. Kristy and I are lab partners and if Sally thinks we're becoming a threesome, she is sorely mistaken. In Italian, Sally takes the desk beside Meg. Meg must be feeling bad about what she said about Lindsey because she keeps her head down all period and doesn't speak to Sally.

Since it's Wednesday, Kristy and I have a Smart and Sober meeting during lunch. Our advisor orders out for pizza every week, which is a perk we don't share with anyone. Kristy and I remain silent about last night's party. A couple members mention it, but Kristy and I pretend we were never there. Most of the meeting is devoted to discussing the presentation we're doing on Saturday at the New Hope Health Fair.

Since we miss lunch with our friends, we apparently also miss more Sally White. "She just walked up and set her tray down," Abby tells me during geology. "She didn't even ask. She didn't even _say _anything. Not all through lunch. She ate her lunch and stared at us. It was super creepy!"

"That's because Sally's a super creep."

"Well, I don't think Greer and Lindsey think so. They were falling all over themselves at lunch, talking over each other, trying to impress her," Abby tells me. She proceeds to re-enact sixth period lunch for me. While part of me is grateful to see the old, silly Abby make a brief reappearance, for the most part, I am uneasy. I don't want a repeat of eighth grade. Sally tossed my friends aside once before. They can't possibly allow her to do it again.

I don't see Sally the rest of the day. After school, I have a French Club meeting. Even though I no longer take French, I'm still an active member of the club. I don't want my oral skills growing rusty. Kristy stops by my locker while I'm gathering my homework.

"Hey!" she greets me, breathlessly. "I just ran from the administration building. I wanted to remind you about this afternoon's volleyball game. Are you still coming?"

"Sure. It's at SHS, right?"

Kristy nods. "Yeah, at four-thirty. I have to run now. I need to swing by the newspaper office, then meet with coach. See you later, Shan!" Kristy takes off, her backpack bouncing against her back, and disappears around a bend in the hall. At SDS, the school newspaper is an after school activity, not a class like at some schools. Kristy joined last year when she decided to become a sportswriter. Of course, Kristy changes her mind about that every other week. I have no idea if she's any good. I'm not a sports fan and don't understand half the things she writes about.

The French Club meeting only goes until three-thirty. I give a couple younger girls rides home, then return to my own house. I find Maria in the kitchen working on her homework. Tiffany's in the backyard, pulling weeds in her garden. I check her bag and she hasn't started any of her homework. I let it pass. I'll give her her space. We can do our homework tonight, together. She works harder under my supervision anyway. I run upstairs and peel off my uniform. I leave on my white blouse and pull a gray v-neck sweater over it. Then I step into a pair of dark blue jeans. I usually favor skirts and tailored pants. It's dumb, but I decide to wear jeans because I'll be at SHS. The kids there think we're such snobs at Stoneybrook Day. I want to look relaxed and casual, just like them.

I stop off in the kitchen to do part of my European history assignment. It's four-forty-five by the time I enter the SHS gym. The game has already started. Kristy and Abby are both out on the court. The SHS side of the gym is packed with parents and students. The crowd on the SDS side is much thinner since for them, it's an away game. Clusters of parents and a few siblings and boyfriends. I sit down in a big empty space in the third row. Typically, someone from Kristy's family is at every one of her games. I glance around, but don't see anyone. I guess Watson and Elizabeth couldn't leave work early this time.

Out on the court, Abby jumps and spikes the ball over the net. I don't think Mrs. Stevenson has made it to a single game this season.

It's a brutal game. SHS is probably the best team in Southern Connecticut and truthfully, the SDS team kind of stinks. Kristy and Abby are decent players, but two decent players can't save a whole team. Especially not when up against an entire team of super stars. It's frustrating for Kristy and Abby to lose all the time. They aren't used to not winning.

Half an hour into the game, my stomach rumbles. I check my watch. It's dinnertime. I dig through my messenger bag for the emergency candy bar I keep in there. The twix is at the bottom underneath my pencil box. It's a little smushed. But not inedible. I wonder what Tiffany and Maria are eating for dinner. I didn't leave them any instructions. Last time I came home late, I found them eating Cool Whip out of the tub.

"You're really serious about that candy bar, aren't you?" asks a male voice.

Startled, I glance up. And almost drop the twix. It's Wesley!

He smiles. "Sorry, scared you again. I have quite the track record, don't I? You are the girl from the Stones' party, right?" he asks, suddenly sounding a tad worried.

I nod, speechless. I clear my throat. "Yes. Yes, I am."

Wesley's smile widens. "I was sitting across the gym and thought it was you. I don't know if this is coincidence or fate. I asked about you. At the party, after you rushed off. Apparently, there were a lot of pretty blonde college girls at that party. No one could figure out exactly who you were." Wesley chuckles, kind of embarrassed.

He _asked_ about me? And described me as _pretty_? No one has ever called me pretty. Tiffany is the family beauty. I am "interesting-lookng" or merely attractive. I hope I'm not blushing because I certainly feel hot. "I apologize for running off like that," I tell him, once again finding my tongue. "There was...an emergency." No way am I admitting that shrieking woman was my mother.

"I assumed as much. So, do you have a name?"

I nod. "Shannon Kilbourne."

"Wesley Ellenburg."

"I remember."

He smiles again, pleased. He smiles a lot. As he should. It's a gorgeous smile. "Do you have a sister on the team?" he asks.

For a moment, I'm puzzled, then look out at the court and recall where I am. "Oh...no. Uh...see that really short girl out there? And the girl with the bushy black ponytail? They live across the street from me." Thank God I changed out of my school uniform. "Is your sister playing?"

"No, my cousin, Mindy. She has the long dark braid." Wesley points to a tall, husky girl on the SHS team. "My aunt's always nagging at me to come watch her games. I try to pop in every now and then. I work just down the road. I teach math at Stoneybrook Middle School."

"You look too young to be a teacher."

Wesley laughs. "I'll take that as a compliment. I think. I was twenty-six in August. Not so young anymore! Don't worry though, a gentleman never asks a lady her age."

I giggle, feeling my brain turn to mush. I've always mocked girls like this, girls who can barely string two words together in the presence of a cute guy. I was never like this with Mick. I kept my head, remained calm, and never faltered. "I'm twenty," I tell him in a rush, not really considering the lie as it passes through my lips.

Wesley nods and smiles, apparently happy with my lie. "Do you want to go out sometime?" he asks. "I wanted to ask. I mean, that's why I tried to find out your name. You don't have a boyfriend or anything, do you?"

My heart quickens in my chest, something I'm not used to. I've always thought myself too sensible for sudden infatuation. "No," I answer. "No boyfriend." I pause a moment and all reason disintegrates. "I'd love to go out with you."

"Great! Can I get your number?"

"Sure." I take out a small heart-shaped notepad from my messenger bag. A tiny voice nags at the back of my mind, _Shannon, Shannon! What are you doing?_ But I ignore it and write down my phone number anyway.

Wesley takes the paper. "Thanks," he says, looking down at the number, studying it, as if committing it to memory. "I want you to know, I don't usually do this. I'm not some creep who prowls around high school volleyball games looking for dates."

"I don't think you're a creep," I assure him with a smile.

"Great! I'm glad. That means this is really your phone number then," he jokes, folding the paper and slipping it into his wallet. "I'll call you. Soon. It was nice seeing you again, Shannon."

I even like the way he says my name. "Nice seeing you, too, Wesley."

"Actually, it's Wes," he replies with a small wave, then turns and walks back to the SHS side of the gym. I try not to watch him and stare. I redirect my attention to Kristy and Abby, but I don't really see them. They are simply blurs of navy plaid shorts and white t-shirts and swinging ponytails, like everyone else on the team. Across the gym, Wes is sitting beside his aunt. He waves and I give a quick wave back. Then his aunt waves, which is sort of embarrassing, so I make a point not to look over at them again.

"What are you looking so dreamy about?"

I glance over to my right and see Elizabeth climbing up the bleachers toward me. "Nothing," I lie.

Elizabeth checks her watch as she takes a seat beside me. "I guess I've missed most of the game. I got stuck in a meeting. Who's winning?"

I look around. I have no clue. Then I see the scoreboard. "Stoneybrook High," I tell her, pointing to the scoreboard. "By fourteen points."

Elizabeth groans. "Kristy will be so upset."

The game ends ten minutes later. Stoneybrook High doesn't win by fourteen points. They win by seventeen. Out on the court, Abby's fuming. She looks like she's ready to kick Kristy, simply because Kristy's the nearest thing to her. The SDS team gets in a huddle around their couch, but Abby stands outside it with her arms folded across her chest, glaring through the net at the SHS team. Abby is not a gracious loser.

Elizabeth and I wait for them on the bleachers. Kristy comes over a few minutes later, her gym bag thrown over her shoulder, frowning and looking very disappointed. "Our team stinks," she complains.

"I'm sorry, honey," Elizabeth tells her.

"_You_ played well," I assure her.

"I guess."

Abby stomps over and throws her gym bag down at my feet. Her face is bright red with fury. "Our team is full of morons!" she cries.

"Shh!" Kristy hisses. "People can hear you!" It's not good when Kristy, of all people, scolds you about tact and good manners.

Abby glares at her. "Well, it's true! I overheard some of the SHS players talking before the game. There were college scouts watching!"

"From where? Stoneybrook U.?" Kristy scoffs. "And what do you care? You're a soccer player. You want recruited for soccer, not volleyball."

"It would be nice to have something to fall back on," Abby replies, angrily. "And now my chance is ruined! All because the morons on our team can't play properly!" Abby kicks her gym bag. "And did you see that smug ass Julie Stern and Heather Epstein doing their little victory dance? I hate those SHS bitches! They make me _sick_!" Abby grabs her bag and storms off. There's a volleyball still sitting on the court. Abby rushes it and kicks it hard, sending it sailing across the gym. It beans a blonde ponytailed SHS player in the back of the head.

"_What_ was that about?" I ask, staring after Abby. I can't believe Abby would act like that in front of Kristy's mother! In front of _everyone._

Kristy's mouth gapes in shock. Elizabeth looks positively appalled at Abby's behavior. The few people left in the bleachers stare at us.

"Talk about poor sportsmanship," says Elizabeth, finding her voice.

"I didn't think she cared about volleyball _that_ much," I say.

Kristy frowns. "Abby told me last week, she doesn't think she'll get into Chapel Hill. Or those schools out in California. Her grades aren't exactly stellar, you know. And honestly, the SDS soccer team is a lot better than the volleyball team, but it's still not fantastic. Maybe she won't get recruited."

"So, she's grasping at straws," I say, sadly. Poor Abby. Is that why she's been so moody lately? And why she's always bent over her homework, falling behind and forever trying to catch up? It's a little late. She can't make up in a single year for three years of slacking off.

Later in the evening, I'm in my bedroom, eating a peanut butter sandwich and studying for tomorrow's microbiology exam. Across the hall, Tiffany and Maria are in Tiffany's bedroom, blasting the stereo, drowning out Mom and Dad, who are downstairs shrieking at each other. It's only eight o' clock. I think they made a mistake and accidentally came home at the same time. Over the screaming and the pounding music, I hear the telephone ring. I lean over the desk and pick up my extension.

It's Wes.


	7. Chapter 7

Apparently, Sally White has joined our group. She hasn't asked. We haven't given her permission. She's a very presumptuous girl. Everywhere we are, she shows up. Just slides in noiselessly and sometimes goes unnoticed until that bored, cool voice breaks into our conversation and startles us. We can't figure out why she isn't picking favorites. She has an angle. She wants something from us. I know it.

I run into her on my way to the cafeteria Friday. She falls into step beside me, like we're old friends, like we do this every day. I glance over at her. She's still wearing those mirrored sunglasses, even though we're indoors. She takes them off only when the teachers force her. She glances back at me and I see myself reflected in those glasses, staring back at me. It occurs to me that Sally and I are eye-level. Usually I'm looking up at her.

"Are you shrinking?" I ask.

Sally stops and swings her right leg into the air, resting it against some lockers. She's wearing the same navy knee socks and black loafers as me. "Dr. Patek hauled me into her office last period. Stilettos aren't part of the dress code."

"I thought you were really tall."

"Well, I'm not."

Sally and I continue on to the cafeteria. Secretly, I am pleased by this latest development. I like the thought that Sally White must look me in the eye. If only she'd take off those ridiculous sunglasses.

"Is Anna still coming?" I exclaim, as I approach our lunch table.

Abby has a mouthful of apple sauce, so she gives me the thumbs-up sign.

"You're certain?" I ask, sliding into my seat and opening my lunch sack. To my displeasure, Sally sits down next to me.

Abby swallows. "Certain. She called last night. She'll be in around four."

Perfect. My date with Wes isn't until six. Anna and I will be able to spend an hour or so together. I'll have more time for her tomorrow. I might even tell her about Wes. The whole truth. Greer may be my long-time best friend, but Anna is my confidante. She listens well and keeps secrets. What little I reveal, I reveal to her.

Sunday is Abby and Anna's seventeenth birthday. Anna promised - _swore_ - she'd be home for it. We've put together a small party for them. It'll be at Kristy's house. (Everything happens at Kristy's). Watson and Elizabeth will barbecue. Personally, I think it's getting a little too cold for barbecuing, but Kristy doesn't agree. But no matter the weather, I know the party will be a great time. And it'll be wonderful to finally see Anna again.

"Abs, Mom wants to know if you have a soda preference. We're going shopping tonight for the party," Kristy says.

"Grape and strawberry," Meg answers.

Kristy turns to Meg and gives her a pointed look, then looks back at Abby. "Abby, what kind of soda would _you_ like?" she asks.

Abby pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Uh...regular cola, I guess. Anna likes root beer. Whatever you want," Abby replies. "I'll pay you back," she adds.

"Nah, it's okay. Mom and Watson will pay," Kristy tells her. She checks between the bread of her ham sandwich, squinting, examining whatever else is inside. "Mom also wants to know if you prefer broccoli casserole or green bean casserole."

"Ew, not broccoli," answers Meg.

Kristy turns to her again, this time with a _withering_ look. "Meg, when is your birthday?" she asks.

Meg takes a sip of her bottled apple juice. "May twenty-sixth," she says.

"Well, on May twenty-sixth, you can choose whatever soda and casserole you wish. Until then, please shut up."

"This is some party you're planning," Sally comments, unscrewing the cap on her ginger ale. "Strawberry soda...broccoli casserole...will there be a piñata, too? And grab bags?"

"Well, I guess you won't know since you're not invited," Kristy snaps. Kristy tried to give Sally a fair chance. That fair chance lasted less than twenty-four hours. Yesterday, during microbiology, Sally suggested that Kristy wax her eyebrows. _It looks like two caterpillars died on your face_, she said. And that was it for Kristy.

"Pity," replies Sally with a smirk.

I glance over at Greer, who's seated beside Kristy. Greer has been alternately impressed and disgusted by Sally. She can't seem to make up her mind if she wants Sally as a friend or an enemy. I find myself looking to Greer every time Sally speaks, in order to gauge her reaction. I can't figure out where Sally stands with Greer. I'm beginning to wonder where I stand with Greer, as well.

"The party's going to be a lot of fun," Greer announces, haughtily. "I adore barbecues, especially ones with broccoli casserole. My parents lifted my grounding early just so I may attend."

I smile at Greer, then happily take a bite of my apple. "It'll be a blast," I agree, even though I haven't finished chewing.

Lindsey, who's seated on the other side of Greer, looks less than pleased. "You've been grounded for _three days_!" she cries. "That isn't fair! My grandparents won't let me off grounding for the party! I have to stay home and clean the garage!"

"You live with your grandparents?" Sally asks, although she doesn't sound curious or interested. Just bored, like always.

"Yes."

"Old people. Bummer."

"They aren't that old! They're only fifty-seven! Some people's _parents_ are that age!"

"Sure. People with old parents."

Lindsey stares down at her half-eaten lunch. She begins to finger the end of her french braid. Pretty soon, it's in her mouth. She's chewing it like she did when we were kids. Her grandparents sent her to a psychologist who was supposed to have broken her of the habit.

"Maybe that's why," Sally says, casually.

Lindsey raises her eyes. "Why what?" she asks, suspiciously.

Sally shrugs. "Why you remind me of an old person."

Lindsey drops her braid from her mouth. Her bottom lip begins to quiver. She jumps out of her seat and runs from the table, dragging her backpack behind her. She shoves open the cafeteria doors and disappears.

I turn on Sally. "Why are you always picking on Lindsey?" I demand.

Sally shrugs again. "She's too sensitive."

"You're a real creep," Kristy spits out, gathering up her lunch.

The rest of us begin gathering our stuff, too. "If you're going to be a bitch, you don't need to sit with us anymore," Greer tells Sally, shoving the remainder of her lunch into her bag. I'm proud of Greer.

Meg pauses beside the table while the rest of us start to walk away. "Everyone's supposed to be nice to Lindsey," she explains to Sally, "because her parents were killed in a train wreck."

"It's not like I was driving the train," Sally replies and we leave her sitting there, alone, sipping her ginger ale.

Lindsey's parents didn't really die in a train wreck. They just didn't want her. Lindsey doesn't know we know, so we pretend to believe her lies.

* * *

When I get home from school, I pay Mrs. Bryar and walk her out to her car like always.

"Mick and I broke up," I tell her, as we walk down the driveway.

"Maria told me."

I cringe, inwardly. Maria's big mouth. "Did she tell you how he did it?" I ask.

"Yes," she answers, but doesn't comment further. I suspect she knows me well enough to know I don't appreciate pity.

"It's for the best," I assure her. "I've already met someone else."

Mrs. Bryar unlocks her car door and raises her eyebrows. "A week later?"

I shrug. "I didn't plan it," I tell her. "You can't control who you - " I almost say _love_, but now I'm not sure I ever loved Mick. And I certainly don't love Wes. I barely know him. "You can't control who you like," I finish.

Mrs. Bryar studies me a moment, then says, "Don't jump into anything just because you're feeling hurt and angry."

"I'm not hurt and angry."

Mrs. Bryar cocks her head to the side. "Be careful," she advises. "I'll see you next week, Shannon."

"I should be here on Monday. Italian Club's been canceled," I tell her with a wave, then I hurry back into the house to start my homework.

Tiffany, Maria, and I work on our homework in the formal dining room, so I can watch for Anna. Last year, I took it for granted that her black Mustang would roar down the street and into the Stevensons' driveway almost every Friday afternoon. Her school started seven weeks ago. She's only come home once since then. New Haven's about an hour or so from here. I don't know what's kept her away.

Anna's black Mustang never shows up. Instead, at fifteen after four, a rusted blue Ford Tempo huffs passed my house and into the Stevensons' driveway. Its bumper and back windshield are covered in duct tape. It's a car that would make my parents and the neighbors never think of complaining about the Pink Clinker again. Tiffany, Maria, and I set aside our books to stand by the window. The driver's side door opens and a tiny girl, probably even shorter than Kristy, with wiry dirty blonde hair climbs out. A few seconds later, Anna Stevenson climbs out after her.

"Who is that?" Maria asks, wrinkling her nose. "And what happened to her car?"

"I don't know," I reply, my stomach sinking. Anna always comes home alone. How can I confide in her if some random girl is hanging around? "Maybe she's not staying," I add, hopefully.

"If she _is_ staying," Tiffany says, "I hope she parks that car in the garage. What an eye sore!"

Abby and Kristy run out the front door of the Stevensons' house. Abby leaps over some hedges and turns a cartwheel on the lawn. I wonder if she knew about this other girl. She could have said something!

"I guess we should go over," I tell Tiffany and Maria, half-heartedly. My earlier excitement has deflated. I try to shake it off. Jealousy is not becoming on anyone. _Of course_ Anna has friends at school. I know that. She has a separate life outside Stoneybrook.

I force a smile onto my face as I cross the street. "Anna!" I shout, waving an arm in the air.

Abby has jumped on Anna, practically smothering her to the ground, but Anna wriggles free. Anna isn't quite as exuberant as Abby. She's much more serious and reserved. But she grins when she sees me and wraps her arms around my neck. "Shannon! It's so good to see you," she tells me. "I've missed you." She drops her voice and whispers in my ear, "I got your letter. I'm sorry. You deserve so much better."

I wrote to her about Mick and the break-up over the weekend. I told her the truth. "Thank you," I whisper back. "I know."

"Okay, break it up!" Abby orders, pulling Anna and I apart. "I'd like to hug my sister again, if you don't mind."

"Where's your car?" I ask Anna when Abby releases her.

Anna glances back at the rusted Tempo. "Oh, you know I don't like driving that car. Too noisy, too fast. Adelaide likes driving though." Anna grabs her wiry haired friend by the wrist and pulls her forward. "This is my roommate, Adelaide. She's an oboe player. She's been dying to meet everyone." Anna proceeds with introductions.

Of course. Adelaide the roommate. Anna's mentioned her. Not very often. Anna prefers to listen rather than talk about herself. There's a lot she doesn't say about herself and her life at school.

"It's terrific to finally meet you all!" Adelaide exclaims. She has a high, squeaky voice, sort of like a cartoon character. "I've heard so much about everyone and about Stoneybrook. I'm from Danbury and Anna comes home with me all the time. Finally, it's my turn to see Anna's town!"

My eyebrows shoot up so high they must disappear into my hair. Anna's never mentioned anything about Danbury. I thought she was spending every weekend at the school. I look over at her, but Anna glances away, avoiding my gaze. I start to speak, but the blare of a car horn interrupts, causing everyone to jump and turn toward the street. Mrs. Stevenson pulls into the driveway in her minivan. She taps the horn again and waves cheerfully. I expect Abby and Anna to look pleased, but instead they appear alarmed.

"Why aren't you at work?" Abby demands as Mrs. Stevenson steps out of the van.

Mrs. Stevenson appears taken aback. "I took off early, so I'd be here for Anna's homecoming. Hello, sweetheart," she says to Anna, smiling and opening her arms. Anna hesitates before stepping into them. She stands stiffly in Mrs. Stevenson's embrace and doesn't hug her mother back. It's an odd, uncomfortable moment, like spying in someone's window and catching something not meant for others' eyes. Kristy looks over at me. She feels it too.

Mrs. Stevenson releases Anna and regards the rest of us. "Hello, girls," she greets us, then pats Adelaide on the back. "Lovely to see you again, Adelaide. Thank you for bringing Anna home to us. Is everyone hungry? How about an early dinner at Pietro's? We can show Adelaide the sights of Stoneybrook."

Abby's mouth turns down, doubtfully. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asks.

"Don't you have some work to do?" Anna asks, her expression matching Abby's. Identical doubtful frowns.

Mrs. Stevenson's smile wavers. "I cleared the weekend for you, Anna," she says.

"You didn't have to."

Mrs. Stevenson doesn't reply right away. She stares at Anna, then at Abby. Kristy and I exchange another awkward glance. I look to Adelaide, but she's studying her fingernails. Behind me, Tiffany and Maria shift from foot to foot. I'd forgotten they were there.

Mrs. Stevenson speaks again. "Pietro's it is then?" she says in a bright and breezy voice that wavers like her smile. "Or is everyone in the mood for chinese? Kristy, Kilbourne girls, you're all invited, of course."

"Oh...thank you, Mrs. Stevenson, but I have plans," I answer.

"Plans?" Anna echoes, frowning.

"Yes," I say, then hesitate. "I have...a study group. At the library." I never lie to my friends. I've never ever lied to Anna. I would have told her the truth if she'd come alone. "But don't worry, Anna. I'm free all tomorrow afternoon."

"After our New Hope presentation," Kristy reminds me.

"Yes, after that."

"Kristy will come to dinner though," insists Abby, throwing an arm around Kristy's shoulders. Kristy looks unsure, but nods anyway.

Mrs. Stevenson smiles in my direction. "Tiffany, Maria, you're welcome to join us," she offers, most likely because she now feels obligated.

"I have a date," Tiffany answers.

I whirl around. "You didn't tell me about any date!" I exclaim.

Tiffany folds her arms. "I don't have to clear my social calendar with you," she says.

Tiffany isn't going to start anything in front of the Stevensons', in view of the entire neighborhood. I won't allow her to bait me. I turn back to everyone. "Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Stevenson. Maybe next time," I say, graciously, then step forward to Anna and give her another quick hug. "I'm glad you finally came back. We'll hang out tomorrow," I promise. "We'll see everyone later. Have a nice dinner!" I wave and start across the front lawn, grabbing Tiffany by the wrist as I pass her.

"Bye Shannon!" everyone calls after me.

When I glance over my shoulder to wave again, Anna's watching me, sadly. I feel a sharp pang of guilt for disappointing her. I'll make up for it tomorrow. Kristy doesn't look very happy with me either, like she suspects I've fabricated an excuse to escape the awkwardness of the Stevensons' company, and purposely left her alone. I'll make up for that too.

Tiffany shakes off my grip as we approach our house. "Why didn't you tell me you have a date?" I demand, as she strides ahead of me.

"Why didn't you tell me _you_ have one?" she shoots back.

"I don't. I'm going to the library."

Tiffany looks back at me and rolls her eyes. "Riiiight. Even you're not that lame. Don't worry, Shanny, I'll keep your little secret." Tiffany runs through the front door and when I reach the porch, shuts it in my face.


	8. Chapter 8

"Who are you going out with?" I demand, leaning against the doorframe into Tiffany's room.

Tiffany's seated at her dressing table, carefully applying eyeliner. "None of your business," she replies, not looking away from the mirror. She begins poking around her cosmetics case and pulls out a dark purple eyeshadow crayon.

"Purple liner and eyeshadow?"

"I think it looks good."

I think it looks sort of trampy, but don't say so. Tiffany won't tell me anything with remarks like that. I watch her awhile longer as she brushes her hair and dabs perfume on her wrists. "Are you going out with Sam Thomas?" I ask.

Tiffany finally looks at me. "Are you serious?" she replies, incredulously.

"Well, are you?"

"No! Absolutely not!" Tiffany exclaims. She picks up her hairbrush and begins running it angrily through her hair. "Why do you always assume the worst of me?"

I assume the worst because I've learned to expect the worst. I fold my arms and tilt my head against the doorframe, but remain silent.

Tiffany tosses down the hairbrush and spins around to face me in her chair. "I'm not _stupid_, Shannon. I may not be a super genius like you, God knows none of us mere mortals can reach the bar you've set from your pristine pedestal in the sky. But I'm not an idiot. Have you _seen_ Janet? She has like thirty pounds on me. I'd prefer to not get my ass kicked, thanks."

My pristine pedestal? Where does Tiffany get this stuff? I unfold my arms and step into the room and come to stand beside the dressing table. "So, who are you going out with then?" I ask, casually.

Tiffany sighs and rolls her eyes at her reflection in the mirror. "Tyler Austen. From the baseball team? He's a junior and in my French class."

It's an effort not to appear shocked. I don't know Tyler Austen personally, but he occasionally shows up at French Club meetings. He seems intelligent and normal. He seems a little too clean-cut and All-American for Tiffany. Why would he want to go out with her? Does she have some sort of reputation I am not aware of?

"Tyler asked you out?"

Tiffany stands and smoothes the front of her black slacks. "No. I asked him. Girls can do that, you know. So, who are you going out with?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well, I hope he makes you feel better about yourself," Tiffany says. She crosses to the closet and removes her black pea coat from its hanger. "Tyler will be here soon. I'm going to wait for him out front." Tiffany walks passed me, coat draped over her arm, purse swinging from her shoulder on its silver chain.

I follow her, out of the room and down the stairs. Just as we step onto the porch, a silver Firebird pulls to a stop at the curb. Tyler Austen hops out, tall and thin in khaki pants and a green-striped polo. He waves as he jogs around the car toward the front walk.

"Tiffany, he is really your date, right? He's not just picking you up, pretending, then is going to drive you to meet someone else?" I know it's mean to ask, but Lindsey does that all the time to her grandparents.

Surprisingly, Tiffany isn't offended. She laughs. "No, but thanks for the idea," she answers, then hurries down the front steps, meeting Tyler halfway down the walk. "Bye, Shanny!" she calls back.

"Be home by eleven!" I shout. "Make responsible choices!"

Tiffany looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes at me. Tyler laughs.

Back inside the house, I rush upstairs to my bedroom. Twenty minutes until I meet Wes. I regard myself critically in the floor-length mirror on the back of the closet door. After careful consideration, I chose a cranberry-colored dress, lightweight with three-quarter sleeves and a low v-neck. Mom would approve, I'm even wearing my push-up bra. I check my watch, then make a quick last minute switch from flats to heels. I fuss a bit with my hair. When I was younger, it was curly, but has relaxed in the past couple years into an attractive wave. I prefer it like this.

"I'm going out!" I call to Maria from outside the living room. Inside, I hear an old Hayley Mills movie playing. "You'll be all right alone?" Mom's having drinks with clients. Dad's who knows where getting drunk with Mr. Jardin. What else is new?

"Please, Shannon, I'm twelve years old!" Maria answers.

I smile to myself, as I slip on my coat. "Okay. Keep the doors locked and don't eat all the brownies Mrs. Bryar left. Any problems, call the Brewers. Bye!"

It's a fifteen minute drive to Stoneybrook University, which sits on the edge of town. I told Wes to meet me outside the library. I couldn't have him driving to my house with nosy Kristy Thomas across the street. So, I told him I'd be working late at the library. The Stoneybrook University campus is dark when I pull through the front entrance. Most of the street lamps are broken, which I've come to expect. The library is at the center of the campus. I navigate slowly along the twisting road, passed the dormitories. The library parking lot is mostly empty since it's a Friday night. I park near the entrance, then sit down on the front steps to wait. I check my watch. I'm right on time.

Wes is not. It's ten after six when his dark red Volvo pulls into the parking lot and comes to a stop near where I sit. I rise slowly, brushing off the seat of my dress, and Wes jumps out of the car.

"Sorry, I'm late," he apologizes, walking toward me, sounding flustered. He's wearing tan slacks with a forest green crewneck sweater. Preppy, yet casual. My favorite look. "I was...it's not important. But I apologize." He smiles, almost bashfully.

"It's all right. Just don't be late again," I reply. I am surprised at my boldness, but Wes only smiles wider.

"Agreed," he says and walks around to the passenger side door, which he opens for me.

"I like your car," I tell him. A Volvo, very practical.

Wes pats the hood as I slide into the passenger seat. "Sheila," he says, affectionately.

I giggle as he shuts my door, carefully, and goes around to the driver's side. When he's in the car, I turn to him and say, "Sheila? You named your car?" Another giggle escapes. I must stop this, or else he'll think I'm silly and foolish. And not twenty.

"Sure! I've named all my cars. Poor Winston died on me last winter. He was a good guy. Didn't you name your car?"

"No!"

"Which is yours?" he asks.

I point to my Explorer three spaces down.

Wes lets out a low whistle as he turns the key in the ignition. "Swell car," he says. "From your parents?"

I nod. "They like to buy expensive things."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky me."

Wes turns onto the freeway on-ramp, headed toward Stamford. We agreed when he telephoned to dinner at a mexican restaurant there. On a Friday night in Stoneybrook, I'd run into half the people I know no matter where we went. I've thought everything through. No one will catch me in Stamford and expose my deception. Especially not at a dark, out of the way place like El Sombrero.

"So, you went to Stoneybrook Day?" Wes asks.

"Yes. Kindergarten through twelfth grade. A lot of people think it's such a snobby school, but most everyone's very nice. It might sound dorky, but I think I received the highest quality education possible. That's very important to me." I pause, wondering if I'm rambling. Am I boring him? "Did you attend Greenvale High?" I ask.

"No, the Paulson School. I went there fourth through twelfth grade," Wes answers. The Paulson School is an all-boys school halfway between Stoneybrook and Greenvale. I drove by it once with my parents when Dad was tipsy and lost. The school is in the middle of nowhere, a monstrous concrete building covered in climbing vines.

"Did you live in the dorms?"

"No, my parents only live ten minutes from the school. I lived in the dorms at Stoneybrook U. though. All four years. One in McKleever, three in Dorset."

I nod like I know what he's talking about. I've driven passed the dormitories plenty of times, but have never been inside or know anything about them.

Wes and I spend the rest of the drive to Stamford discussing our families. I remain vague on mine. On the first date Wes doesn't need to hear that my father drinks too much and that he and my mother rarely come home, or that my sister makes some weird game of flirting with married men. So, I say only what I must. Wes, however, enjoys telling me all about his family. I learn he is an only child and his father sells boats and other water sports equipment in Sheridan and Haddonfield. Wes gave up a scholarship to the University of Hartford to attend Stoneybrook U. because his dad was sick and needed Wes' help running the business.

"He's okay now," Wes assures me. "Healthy as a horse and stubborn as a mule, my mom says. Most of the time, I agree with that assessment." Wes laughs.

Strange, someone who _likes_ his family.

We pull into the parking lot of the restaurant. Even though it's nearly seven, the place is packed. "Everyone's probably in the bar," Wes says and he's right because we're seated immediately. I do a quick survey as we cross the restaurant. No familiar faces.

"I know it's a corny question and you're probably sick of it," Wes says, opening his menu. "But what's your major?"

"Oh...I haven't decided," I reply, which is the truth. "I'm interested in so many subjects. I love the sciences, but I'm leaning more toward International Business and Foreign Language Studies. I'm already fluent in Spanish and French. I'm also in second year Italian."

Wes looks very impressed. "Wow. Second, third, and fourth languages. I took Spanish for three years at Paulson and I doubt I could count to twenty if my life depended on it."

"I find foreign languages fascinating! I took Spanish for four years at Stoneybrook Day and French for five. I'd like to study Italian for another year, then move on to German or even Japanese. You know Dr. Dupree, right? From the Religious Studies department?"

Wes nods. "I took some gen ed. class from him freshman year. Strange class."

"Well, I'm friends with his granddaughter, Lindsey. Dr. Dupree knows Greek _and_ Latin. He said he'd give me private lessons in one this summer." I actually wanted lessons in _both_, but Dr. Dupree thought that would be overwhelming. He doesn't realize how much I can handle.

Wes grins at me. "You know, Shannon, your whole face lights up when you talk about languages. I think you've found your calling."

"Really?" I realize I am grinning like an absolute fool.

"It's cute," Wes says. "And nice to see. I know so many people who hate their jobs. They've never had any passion for what they do. I find that all the time in the school system. Me, I love teaching. I've wanted to be a math teacher since I was eleven years old. My parents are a little disappointed. They wanted me to be a lawyer!"

"You wouldn't want to be a lawyer. My dad's a lawyer and he's awful."

Wes looks surprised. I cover my mouth, shocked at what I've said. I've thought a million horrid thoughts about my father, but I never speak them aloud. They are for me to turn in my mind and brood on. They're not something for everyone.

"Gee, Shannon, I'm sorry," Wes says and he does sound sorry. I've said so little in that slip, but maybe I reveal more in my expression.

"Never mind," I say, quickly, suddenly very interested in the menu. "I think I'm going to have the cheese enchiladas. Where is the waiter? He hasn't even taken our drink orders." I search the restaurant with my eyes, land on a waiter, and flag him down.

If Wes thinks I'm crazy, he doesn't let on. After placing our orders, he picks up our earlier conversation about teaching. He tells me about his students - the good, the bad, and the disastrous. We're laughing very hard by the time the food arrives and we keep talking all through dinner. We talk so much our food is cold by the time we're only half-finished. Surprisingly, Wes and I share a lot of common interests. We listen to the same music (yes to Great Blue Whales, absolutely no to U4Me and Skeeball), enjoy the same books (anything by F. Scott Fitzgerald), even like the same movies. I'm not nervous with Wes. I realize it's trite, but it feels like we're old friends becoming reacquainted.

"You haven't said much about your sisters," Wes comments when we're walking back out to the Volvo.

"There isn't much to tell," I reply, as Wes opens my door for me. If Kristy and Abby were here, they'd gag and scold me. But I like that sort of thing. Chivalry has long been forgotten.

"I always wanted a little sister or brother," Wes says, starting the car.

"Would you like mine?" I offer. "You can have Tiffany. She's - " I almost say _trouble_, but it seems disloyal.

"She's what?"

"A handful," I finish, weakly.

"You don't give away much do you?"

I look over at him. "What do you mean?" I ask.

Wes doesn't reply right away, considering his next words. His expression is unreadable. "You talk about a lot of things," he finally says, "but you don't say anything about yourself. Not really."

I furrow my brow, confused. Is he breaking it gently to me that I'm dull? That my words are empty and meaningless? "Is that bad?" I ask.

Wes smiles. "No. Intriguing."

I return his smile. Intriguing. That's good. I settle back in the seat and relax a little more. I gaze out the window at the darkness, smiling at my reflection in the glass. Wes thinks I'm _intriguing _and that's better than pretty or even simply smart. Sometimes when I was with Mick, the feeling came over me that he found me tedious. The way I would talk and talk about a subject and this look would flicker in his eyes. I never knew what it meant and so I feared the worst. Tiffany would be stunned if she knew some of the thoughts I have about myself. Doubts and suspicious concerns.

Wes clears his throat. "I know this is last minute - and you can say no if you want - but tomorrow, I have to drive up to Levittown to check out a boat show. Would you like to go?"

"A boat show?"

"I know it sounds boring and trust me, it is boring. But my parents are in Miami for the week and I promised Dad I'd report back to him about the show. That means, oh, a quick five minute sweep around the building, then we leave. But not far from the show, there's this great little restaurant. It's in an old cottage and the owners make everything fresh, even the bread. The boat show's from two to five. I thought I'd leave Stoneybrook around two," Wes tells me. "It's okay if you're not interested," he adds, quickly.

I mentally check my weekend schedule. If I wake early tomorrow, I can finish most of my weekend homework. Around noon, I can stop by the Stevenson's for lunch with Anna. Something fast and simple. Grilled cheese sandwiches, maybe. Then, the boat show with Wes in Levittown. That's a forty-five minute drive there and back. Theoretically, I could be back in time for a late movie and dessert with Anna. A packed day, but one with a certain amount of flexibility.

"Sure. That sounds like fun," I tell Wes. "Can we meet at the library again? I'll be there all morning."

"Sounds great!"

The parking lot is empty when Wes pulls up beside my Explorer. He gets out of the car with me and holds my coat and purse while I unlock the door. "I had a wonderful time," I say, taking my coat from his arms.

"So did I!" he agrees with another smile. When he smiles, he looks younger than twenty-six. Sort of shy and boyish.

Wes doesn't kiss me good night, but I'm not disappointed. I don't believe in kissing on first dates. Greer calls me a prude. I feel I have standards. As I drive home, there is a wave of guilt over my deception. I've never been a liar. If I admitted misleading him, would Wes still take me out? But I remember his smile and push the thought from my mind.

It's after eleven when I creep into the house. I don't know why I'm creeping. There's no one to catch me. Mom and Dad's cars are still gone. Tiffany's not home either. I peek into Maria's room and she's already asleep with Astrid, our Bernese Mountain dog, beside her. I'm in my bedroom, undressing when my private extension rings, sharp and startling. My heart skips a beat as I reach for the phone.

"Hello?" I say, cautiously.

"Shannon?" Kristy replies.

"Kristy?"

"Hey! I saw you drive up."

I sit down at my desk. I'm only wearing a bra, panties, and heels. I feel like a cheap call girl. "Were you watching my house?" I ask.

"Uh, _no._ I'm at my desk working on homework. I can see your house from here."

So, she was only kind of watching my house. "What's going on?" I ask. "How was dinner?"

"Weird! Thanks a lot for flaking out! We went to Pietro's - I had the lasagna, by the way - and Anna didn't say one word. I swear! Mrs. Stevenson kept talking to her, but it was like Anna didn't hear a word she said. Abby acted really odd, too, until about halfway through dinner. Then she loosened up and was the same old, slightly annoying, Abby," Kristy stops and takes a breath. "Anna's friend talked the entire time. She's really nice, Shannon, except for that voice. She's interested in the Smart and Sober club, so I invited her and Anna along tomorrow. Abby's coming, too, under protest. I was thinking - "

"What?" I cut her off, a sinking in my stomach. "What's tomorrow?"

"The presentation in New Hope, of course."

The sinking continues. The presentation. I completely forgot. How did I forget? I never forget anything! "The New Hope presentation," I repeat, slowly, turning my options over in my mind. I hesitate. "Could you possibly handle that without me?" I ask.

"Without you?"

I bite my lower lip, thinking. "I have something to do tomorrow," I tell Kristy. "An interview...in Levittown. I'm going with my study group. It's for a project." I can't believe I'm lying to Kristy. I'm horrible. "Amanda will be there to help you. Amanda's a strong presenter."

Kristy's silent. I hear her breathing on the other end. "I guess," she finally says.

"I'm really sorry," I say. And I am. "I can't reschedule."

Another short silence. "I understand," Kristy says, flatly.

"Thanks, Kristy. I won't cancel on you again," I promise. "I should get off the phone. I need a good night's rest. I'll talk to you tomorrow though. Good luck on the presentation."

"Thanks," Kristy replies, then hangs up.

I am awful.


	9. Chapter 9

Abby and Anna's birthday party begins at one o' clock on Sunday. Maria and I cross the street at exactly five til, Maria carrying the gifts while I carry the fruit salad. We meet Mrs. Stevenson and Adelaide at the end of the Stevenson's driveway, each holding an end of a large pink bakery box. Abby and Anna are nowhere in sight.

"The girls already went over to Kristy's," Mrs. Stevenson explains, stopping and readjusting her grip on the box. She and Adelaide appear to be having difficulties holding it steady. Probably because Mrs. Stevenson is at least a foot taller.

Sam and Janet are parked in Kristy's driveway, having just arrived in Janet's Honda CR-V, a gift from her parents. Sam still drives the same battered brown rattler he bought himself the summer before his senior year. Watson and Elizabeth bought Charlie a brand-new car when he started college, but not Sam. Watson's form of punishment, Kristy says, to teach him responsibility. Elizabeth doesn't exactly agree. I know the car issue has caused a few problems at the Thomas-Brewer house.

"Get the baby!" Janet barks at Sam, as we turn up the drive. Janet's standing by the open trunk, holding a covered glass dish with a bulging diaper bag thrown over her shoulder.

Sam ignores her. "Where's Tiffany?" he asks me.

"At work," I reply, coolly without stopping.

Sam doesn't even attempt to hide his disappointment. "Is she coming after?" he asks.

"No...she has a date," I tell him. "With her new boyfriend." Technically, this is true. Tyler Austen is picking her up from work, but he's not exactly her new boyfriend. Tiffany didn't say much about their date Friday night.

"Her new boyfriend?" Sam repeats.

"Oh, get a grip," Janet growls, slamming down the trunk with one hand. She looks over at me and rolls her eyes. "Now, get the baby," she orders, then falls into step beside me, as I continue up the drive.

"Hey, Shannon!" Sam calls after me. "Don't eat whatever poison Janet made!"

"My mother helped me!" Janet screeches back at him.

It's a lovely start to Abby and Anna's party.

When we're in the kitchen and Janet has left to find Sam and the baby, Mrs. Stevenson turns to me and says, "Are they always like that?"

I stare at her, surprised. How can she not know? "Yes. They're always like that," I answer, shoving the fruit salad into the refrigerator. "I'm sure everyone's out back. Come on, Adelaide."

"I can't believe how big this house is!" Adelaide shrieks in her squeaky voice, as we walk through the living room. "It's even bigger than Anna's house! I'm so glad I convinced Anna to come home. I told her, she can't miss her own birthday party!"

I raise an eyebrow, but Adelaide doesn't see because she's already slipped through the back door out into the yard. Adelaide convinced Anna to come home? I follow Adelaide through the back door. Kristy, Abby, and Anna are standing out in the yard with Greer and Meg. Greer has her auburn curls twisted in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She's wearing her beret again. Meg's in a sleeveless tennis dress with a coral-colored skirt and a coral and beige-stripe top. She must have come straight from a lesson. Meg used to play on the SDS field hockey team until Mrs. Jardin decided it wasn't ladylike. Now Meg plays only ladylike sports like tennis and croquet. She hates them.

"Happy birthday!" I call out to Abby and Anna. When I reach them, I hug them both. I hold Anna a little tighter, a little longer. She needs it. I don't know why, but she does. She was so standoffish last night. I never made it to lunch yesterday. I just had too much homework. All through the drive to and from Levittown and all through the boat show and lunch, all I thought of was how I'd lied and disappointed Anna. And Kristy. I didn't enjoy myself as much as I did Friday night. I wonder if Wes felt it. "I don't know where Maria put your gifts," I tell them when I release my hold on Anna.

"I'll find them," says Kristy, taking charge like always. I wonder if she's still upset with me. Last night, when we all went to the movies, she hardly spoke a word to me. When we stopped at Thelma's Cafe for pie and ice cream, she sat as far from me as possible and refused to look my way. It was an awkward evening, especially with Anna barely speaking either. All the silence was filled up with Adelaide's squeaky prattling. I suppose this is how comeuppance tastes, like bitter guilt, and I can't say it's more than I deserve.

"Is Kristy still mad at me?" I ask when Kristy's disappeared inside the house.

Everyone shrugs, but no one looks very interested in discussing the truth.

When Kristy comes outside, she's carrying my gifts, and glaring at me. Or not at me. Claudia Kishi follows her out the door. Claudia has on hot pink and neon yellow floral-print leggings and a sheer black blouse that her black lace bra is clearly visible through. Maybe that's appropriate barbecue-wear over on Bradford Court, but I doubt it will go over well with Elizabeth and Watson.

Kristy tosses my gifts onto a card table on the patio, then strides swiftly toward us, glaring at Abby. "I didn't know Claudia was coming," she says in what I assume is supposed to be a light tone, but instead comes out tight and strained.

Abby looks embarrassed. "Oh...I forgot to tell you. I invited Claudia. Surprise?"

Claudia waves. "Hey everyone!" she cries.

Kristy introduces Claudia to Adelaide, then reintroduces her to Greer and Meg. They've met a couple times over the years. Kristy's introductions are rather half-hearted. I know she's still upset about Bart's party. "Where's Erica Blumberg?" Kristy asks Claudia. "I thought you two were attached at the hip."

"Oh...well, she's kind of embarrassed about throwing up in your car. Sorry about that, by the way."

"Thanks."

"What are you wearing?" Greer asks Claudia, bluntly.

Claudia glances down at her shirt. "My body is its own work of art," she explains, seriously.

No one appears to know exactly what that means.

"Foods up!" Watson shouts from the patio, saving us from further awkward conversation.

We file into the house, where lunch has been set out buffet-style on the kitchen table. Watson and Elizabeth barbecued hamburgers and hot dogs, plus there are several salads and vegetable dishes. When I catch Sam watching me, I make a big show of piling my plate high with the broccoli casserole Janet brought. It doesn't occur to me until he looks away that now I actually have to eat it. I hate broccoli.

Out on the patio, I hear Nannie say to Janet, "Why don't you go sit at the picnic table with the other young girls?"

Janet mumbles something in reply, then sets her plate down on the patio table between Mrs. Stevenson and Emily Michelle. I always forget she's only a year older than us.

Kristy falls into step beside me as I cross the lawn to the picnic table. "Thank God she's not sitting with us," Kristy grumbles.

"She isn't so bad, if you give her a chance."

"She's run out of chances with me," Kristy snaps.

"She isn't to blame for everything," I reply. I wonder if Kristy and Elizabeth will ever admit that Sam made choices, just like Janet did. They can't go on forever dumping the blame solely in Janet's lap. "Kristy, I'm sorry about the New Hope presentation." I don't mean to say it now, but it slips, out into the open.

Kristy doesn't say anything right away. "It's okay," she says finally. "I know you wouldn't cancel without a good reason."

I thought I couldn't possibly feel worse about my lie. I was wrong. I bite my bottom lip and slide onto the bench beside Greer. Kristy sits across from me between Adelaide and Abby. Anna and Meg soon join us, Anna sliding in beside me, then Meg on her other side. It's several minutes before Claudia comes out, carrying a plate loaded with food and wearing a white cardigan and a disgruntled expression.

"Kristy, I'm so disappointed in your mother!" she exclaims. "I didn't realize she supported censorship of the arts!"

Kristy shrugs, stifling a laugh. "Sorry, I don't know what to tell you, Claud."

Greer clears her throat, clinking her plastic fork on the side of her plastic cup. "So..." she begins when everyone's looking at her. "Mr. and Mrs. Taylor came home Friday night," she says and pauses dramatically. "As soon as my mother saw them, she marched right down there to give them an earful about Bart's party. Embarrassing, I know. Well, she came back absolutely fuming. The Taylors gave Bart permission to have that party! Mr. Taylor's the one who bought the kegs!" Greer cries, slapping her palms down on the table top. "Could you just die to have such cool parents?"

"Uh...no," replies Kristy.

Greer rolls her eyes. "You're such a stick-in-the-mud, Kristy."

"That's really irresponsible of the Taylors," I interject. "Someone could have gotten hurt."

Greer flicks her hand, dismissively. "You worry too much, Shannon. I wish my parents were like the Taylors. Mine are total drags. My mom lectured me for twenty whole minutes Tuesday night. It was torture!" Greer rolls her eyes again. "What did your parents do, Claudia?"

Claudia takes a sip of her soda. "They don't know. I stayed over at Erica's. Her parents were kind of mad. Not about the drinking, but about the pot. They didn't yell though," Claudia answers. She takes another sip of soda. "But Lauren did. Oh my Lord, she gave me such a headache." Claudia places a hand on her forehead, as if the memory itself is painful.

"Lauren Hoffman?" Anna asks, looking up from her hamburger, which until now she's been concentrating intently on.

"Yeah," Claudia says, "do you know her?"

"Sure. We were in orchestra together at SMS. She played the trombone."

Kristy snorts. "Figures. She's always been full of a lot of hot air." Kristy chuckles to herself and takes an enormous bite of her hamburger, smearing ketchup over her top lip. Suddenly, she looks startled and her eyes widen. She begins chewing furiously.

"Don't choke," I advise, taking a very dainty bite of my own hamburger.

Kristy swallows and slaps the picnic table. "I forgot to tell you all!" she exclaims, then quickly wipes her mouth with a napkin. "Mary Anne called me this morning. She's been nominated for Homecoming Queen!"

I can't help but raise an eyebrow. "Mary Anne Spier?"

"Oh, yeah," Claudia says, leaning around Abby. "Erica and I helped with her campaign posters on Friday night. I made some really wild ones! I'm not certain how much Mary Anne liked them though. Julie Stern sure didn't."

Abby gags.

"Is Mary Anne aware she has to stand in front of a stadium packed with people?" I ask Kristy, ignoring Abby. Mary Anne is incredibly shy. I've hardly seen her the past few years, but I doubt she's changed that much.

Kristy nods. "Of course she knows that! She's nervous, but I think she's a lot more excited than she lets on. I promised her we'll all come to the Homecoming game to cheer her on."

"Sure!" I agree, enthusiastically. I've never been to a Homecoming. We don't have one at Stoneybrook Day. There isn't a football team, plus the school board and Dr. Patek believe Homecoming elections are degrading and divisive.

Kristy stretches across the table to grab some napkins from in front of Meg. The smiles quickly drops off her face and is replaced by an expression of anger missed with disbelief. "What is she doing here?" Kristy shouts.

Everyone's head whips around to the patio. And our jaws promptly drop. Sally White is crossing the lawn toward us. She's wearing black satin shorts and a burgundy silk tunic with her stiletto heels. She has a blue and yellow polka dot box tucked under her arm.

We are stunned into silence as Sally comes to a stop at the head of the picnic table. She drops the box in front of Abby and Anna. I recognize it as a candy box from Polly's Fine Candy in downtown Stoneybrook. "Here," she says, casually. "There are two of you, so I bought two pounds. Happy birthday." She turns toward Anna and lowers her mirrored sunglasses. "You must be the twin. Good, it's easy to tell you apart. Your hair doesn't look like an electrocuted mop." Now Sally turns toward Kristy. "Nice house. Your dad said the food was in the kitchen. Don't talk about me while I'm gone." Sally slides her sunglasses back into place, then spins on her heel and strides back toward the house.

"Who is that?" Anna asks, terribly confused.

Kristy, Abby, Greer, and I exchange gaping looks. Greer's holding her hand over her mouth. It is a rare moment when Greer, Kristy, and Abby are all speechless. "Oh my God," Greer finally gasps, lowering her hand. Then she laughs. "Oh my God," she repeats. "Can you believe her nerve?"

"You can close your mouth now," I tell Kristy.

Kristy obeys, but the stunned look doesn't leave her face.

"Who is that?" Anna asks again.

"Sally White," I reply.

Anna's hand flies to her mouth. "The Sally White? The one you told us about?"

"There's only one," I say. "Thank God."

"What are we supposed to do? Make her leave?" Abby asks. "How did she know what time the party started?"

Instinctively, everyone's head turns toward Meg, who has been oddly silent. Meg's twirling a strand of dark hair around her finger, eyes shifting back and forth. "She said she was curious," Meg tells us.

"Meg!" Abby and I exclaim in unison.

Kristy finally regains her voice. "I'm going to talk to Mom," she announces, standing up. "Shannon, come with me."

Kristy and I walk quickly to the patio, where the adults and kids are seated. Sam and David Michael are flicking olives at Janet while she stoically ignores them. Elizabeth, Watson, Nannie, and Mrs. Stevenson are ignoring them too. All four have turned their chairs slightly away from the rest of the table. They're deep in conversation when Kristy and I come to stand between Elizabeth and Watson. They barely acknowledge us and continue on with their discussion. I hate when adults do that, pretend you are not there, waiting, listening to every word. It's like you are invisible and hardly even matter.

"Anna has become impossible," Mrs. Stevenson is telling them. "I don't know what to do with her. She's freezing me out. Ever since I told them my decision to go back to my maiden name. They think it's forgetting. I've held onto Jonathan's name too long. It's keeping me back. I need to get on with my life."

"Of course," Elizabeth replies, a bit unsurely. "We have noticed that Abby seems...troubled." She glances over at Watson.

Mrs. Stevenson's face becomes unreadable. "Yes..." she says and begins to fidget with her napkin.

Kristy takes the opportunity to jump in. She pokes Elizabeth in the back. "Mom," she says, "that girl you just let in? She wasn't invited."

Elizabeth turns her chair partly around, so we have a side view of her. "What do you mean she wasn't invited?"

"Uh...I mean, she wasn't invited?"

"Kristy..." Watson says, warningly.

"What? She wasn't," Kristy tells him, then turns back to her mother. "Mom, that's Sally White. Remember? From microbiology?"

Elizabeth smiles, slightly. "The eyebrow girl," she says.

"Yes, the eyebrow girl, Mom. Who says mine look like dead caterpillars. What are you going to do about her?"

Janet swings her chair around to face us. There's a pickle in her hair. "I could pluck your eyebrows for you, Kristy," she offers.

Kristy folds her arms. "Excuse me, but I'm not mutilating my body. And I'm not talking to you. Now, Mom, what are you going to do about Sally White?"

Elizabeth cocks an eyebrow. "What am I going to do?"

Mrs. Stevenson stops fidgeting with her napkin and leans forward. "Why would she come to a party she's not invited to?" Mrs. Stevenson asks.

"Because she wants to torture us," I answer.

Mrs. Stevenson laughs. She's a lot of help. Sally comes out of the house then, holding a cup of strawberry soda and balancing a plate on her hand. She's pushed her sunglasses onto her head. She regards us in that cool way of hers. "I thought I said not to talk about me while I'm gone?" she says, then starts back toward the picnic table.

Kristy shoots a dirty look at the adults, then grabs my wrist and pulls me along with her, following Sally. Sally sets her plate next to Claudia, across from Meg, and dusts off the bench with a napkin. Then she sits down and bites into her hamburger. Everyone's staring at her again. There's a slight sinking in my stomach when I notice Greer gazing at her almost admiringly.

Kristy and I take our seats again. Kristy's mouth is in a thin, straight line, as she silently fumes. Slowly, everyone resumes eating, but still cast furtive glances in Sally's direction. She doesn't notice, or at least pretends not to.

When Sally finally looks up from her plate, she stares at Meg, who's on her second hamburger, which has lettuce, tomato, and avocado sliding out the sides. Meg's plate is still heaped with macaroni salad, corn on the cob, and fruit salad, which she's not made a dent in. "Damn, that's a lot of food," Sally says, lifting her soda to her lips.

Meg pauses mid-bite and casts a guilty look down at her plate. "My mother doesn't let me eat," she explains.

"Your mother doesn't let you eat?"

Meg shakes her head.

Sally tips her head back and drains her cup. "This is one screwed up town," she says. No one tells her she has a strawberry mustache.

After lunch, we gather in the living room for Abby and Anna to open their gifts. It's become rather chilly outside and Meg's lips have turned a bit blue since she's in that ridiculous tennis dress. Abby and Anna sit together on the sectional sofa with me on Anna's right and Kristy on Abby's left. Sally plops down next to me and stretches out her arms, taking up much more space than she deserves. I wonder why we're putting up with her. Sally takes a momentary interest in Sam until she realizes he's married to "that chick with the pickle in her hair." She then shifts her attention to Charlie, who while not present, is visible in at least a dozen photos scattered around the living room. I answer Sally's questions half-heartedly, knowing that Kristy's furious enough about Sam being with Janet, plus Charlie's best friend and roommate at Central Connecticut dates her childhood nemesis, Cokie Mason. Sally White would really just be the icing on the cake that causes Kristy to snap.

Abby shakes a large gift from Meg, wrapped in yellow paisley-print paper. "What is it?" Abby asks, grinning, giving it another shake.

"A professional make-up kit," Meg answers.

"You aren't supposed to tell her!" exclaims Kristy, throwing a ball of wadded paper at Meg.

Abby wrinkles her nose. "What am I going to do with a professional make-up kit?" she asks.

"I don't know. My mother bought it."

Anna lifts an identical gift. "I guess I know what this is," she says. "Thanks, Meg," but she pushes the gift aside without unwrapping it.

Abby and Anna don't look particularly thrilled with the skin care kits Greer gives them either. Or the handmade bead and glitter headbands from Claudia, although they fake enthusiasm well. I fare much better. Abby appears genuinely excited about Elvis nightshirt and mug, as does Anna about the jasmine bath set. Jasmine is our favorite scent. Mrs. Stevenson gives Abby and Anna gorgeous matching Shetland sweaters in misty heather-grays. Anna doesn't even take hers out of the box. Kristy's family gives them gift certificates to Sound Ideas, the local music store. Sam and Janet give them each a book, which causes Sam to snort and ask, "What do you know about books?" David Michael laughs loudly until Nannie tells him to knock it off.

Afterward, we move into the kitchen for cake and ice cream. Mrs. Stevenson bought a beautiful cake. It's in baby blue and yellow, covered in huge frosting flowers with a string of fake pearls and a ribbon of lace running across it. It reads: Happy 17th Birthday, Abby and Anna! in black cursive lettering. Abby and Anna barely glance at it before poking in the candles Elizabeth holds out to them.

"We'll save Lindsey a piece," Abby tells us, as she cuts into the cake. "We'll take it over tonight. She can't possibly be grounded from eating cake."

Greer, Meg, Kristy, and I are leaning against the pantry door, eating our cake and ice cream, with Sally hovering near. "I called her, you know," she says, casually.

"Who?" I ask.

"Lindsey. I knew you would all still have your panties in a twist about Friday, so I called to apologize for pointing out that her grandparents are old. But Granny wouldn't put her on the phone."

"Her name is Dr. Dupree," I say, testily.

Sally puckers her lips. "Oooh, Dr. Dupree," she says, mockingly.

Meg licks frosting off her fork. "She teaches medieval history at Stoneybrook U. I think it's a very romantic subject," Meg says, dreamily, with a sigh.

"Well, if I ever want to discuss Beowulf in its original text, I'll be sure to give her a call," Sally says, dismissively, and begins walking away.

"Why do you have such a problem with Lindsey?" I call after her.

Sally looks at me over her shoulder. "Because she thinks everyone's supposed to like her," she answers, smirking at Meg.

We stare after her. "What is she doing here?" I want to know. "She doesn't even like us."

Greer taps her fork against her front teeth. "Well...she keeps things interesting," Greer admits.

"I hope we're not starting this again," I comment, then walk away, tossing my half-eaten cake into the trash as I pass.

Anna appears beside me, wordlessly linking her arm through mine, then pulls me out of the kitchen and into Watson's study. She shuts the door. "Do you want to buy my sweater?" she asks and I realize she has the Shetland sweater draped over the shoulders of her mustard-colored long-sleeved shirt.

"Do I want to buy it?" I repeat, puzzled.

Anna pushes it into my hands. "Yes. I don't want it. I hate it. Plus, I need the money. I'm saving for something important."

"What?" I ask, curiously.

Anna shrugs.

I check the sweater tag. It's a genuine Shetland from the Shetland Islands of Scotland. "This is expensive, you know. Your mom paid at least a hundred dollars for it."

"I don't care. She owes me."

I study the sweater, carefully and a bit longingly. Like all my friends, I already have about a dozen Shetland sweaters, but none in this pattern or color. I already see myself in it. It would look great with my favorite skirt. I bet Wes would like it. "If you come over after the party, I can write you a check," I tell her.

"For a hundred?"

"Yes."

Anna smiles and it's an odd smile that I don't quite understand.


	10. Chapter 10

Wednesday afternoon is sunny with a slight breeze, strange for mid-October. After school, my friends and I meet in the performing arts center - Kristy, Greer, Abby, and I...with Sally White tagging along, hanging over the seat beside mine, snapping her gum in my ear. I'm seated in the front row. Greer and Kristy are on stage with Karl Schmauder, and Abby's backstage readying the props for our sound effects. It's our final rehearsal before Saturday night's performance at the Creative Arts Faire. A lot of art projects are already on display - paintings, sculptures, models. Tiffany and her friend, Frannie, created a collage of pressed flowers. It turned out quite lovely.

Sally snaps her gum in my ear. "So, is this an autobiographical play?" she asks. Her breath smells like watermelon.

"No," I reply, not glancing up from my notes. "It's just a play."

"That's not what Greer thinks," Sally says with another snap.

I ignore her. She's baiting me. Greer would never say that. Especially not to Sally White. Besides, Greer doesn't know much about my private family life.

I push away the doubt. I have work to do. "Karl, can you move back a little? You're sort of blocking Kristy," I call out. Karl takes a step back. "Perfect!" I shout, giving him the a-ok sign. "Now, from the beginning...action!"

Greer, Karl, and Kristy remain frozen a moment. Kristy's seated center stage on an old over-stuffed sofa with Karl standing to her right, holding his head in his hands, wearing an old smoking jacket of his grandfather's. Greer's on Kristy's left with a hand on her hip, back swayed slightly, an unlit cigarette between her fingers. After a moments pause, Greer and Karl spring into action. Greer removes a gold lighter from her pocket and with a flick of her wrist, lights the cigarette. We were surprised when Dr. Patek gave permission for Greer to smoke on stage, especially since she refused permission for Kristy to smash a real hour-glass. Instead, we recorded Kristy breaking a mirror with a hammer in her garage. Abby will play the recording while on stage Kristy throws down a wood and plastic hour-glass we got from Greer's mother's antique shop.

The Broken Hour-Glass is about a married couple, Greer and Karl, who are splitting up. They spend the play fighting over who keeps their prized possession, an antique hour-glass while their daughter, Kristy, sits on the sofa, watching. In the end, she breaks the hour-glass and only then do her parents notice she's in the room.

It takes several run-throughs for Abby to get all the sound effects on cue. By four o' clock, everything's tight and smooth. We're ready for Saturday night.

"Fantastic," I tell Kristy, Greer, and Abby when they come down the stage steps. Greer's smoking her third cigarette.

Kristy looks doubtful. "I'm sorry, Shannon, but I still feel like a total idiot just sitting on that couch. Why can't I say something?"

"Your character speaks without words," I answer, hoisting my messenger bag onto my shoulder. It's loaded with books. I can't believe how much homework I already have mid-week. "Have you spoken to Anna?" I ask Abby. I want Anna to come for our big premiere. I was unable to successfully convince her over the weekend.

"I called yesterday, but she was practicing with some violin group. She never called back," Abby replies, as we step outside into the bright sun. "Don't count on her, Shannon," she warns.

"Call again this afternoon. I'll call, too. Everyone should call. Tell her that tomorrow night we're all going to the SHS Homecoming game to see Mary Anne. Then Saturday, we'll have the Creative Arts Faire. It'll be a lot of fun. She shouldn't miss out."

Sally slips on her sunglasses. "Are you, like, in love with this Anna girl, or something?" she asks.

I look at her in disbelief. "No, I'm not in love with her," I snap. "She's my friend and I miss her." And I worry about her, especially now. But I won't tell Sally that.

"You certainly are concerned about where she is and what she's doing at any given moment," Sally tells me.

"I am not," I retort, turning away from her.

"I think you have some control issues," Sally continues.

I ignore her. When is she going to leave us alone and find her own friends? "Does anyone need a ride?" I ask, directing my question at Kristy and Abby. "I'm supposed to go over to Lindsey's."

Kristy looks at her watch and shakes her head. "No. Al's supposed to be in the newspaper office until five. I need to talk to him about that boring story he has me writing about the boys' golf team."

"I have a bunch of research to do in the library," Abby says. I notice her backpack is even more stuffed than my bag. It won't even zip all the way.

"I'm going to the mall," Sally announces, importantly. "Who would like to come? It will certainly be a lot more interesting than golf or hanging out with Lindsey." I can't see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I'm sure she's giving me a pointed look.

Greer hesitates, shifting her messenger bag strap on her shoulder. She bites her lip and glances quickly at me, then averts her eyes before making contact. I know what she is thinking. And I can't believe it. "I'll go with you," Greer says finally. "I'm supposed to work on a paper for American Lit, but I can do it this weekend."

"Fabulous. We'll take your car. I can't drive."

Kristy rolls her eyes. "So, basically, you just need someone to drive you to the mall," she comments.

Sally ignores her, stepping forward and linking arms with Greer. "Have fun with your homework," she says, coolly, then steers Greer toward the parking lot.

Kristy, Abby, and I watch them walk away. Greer looks over her shoulder once, looking a bit guilty. No one smiles or waves. It's an effort on my part not to curse and throw something. Didn't Greer learn the last time? You don't trust Sally White!

I part ways with Kristy and Abby, stalking out to my Explorer, fuming silently. Sometimes I don't even know Greer anymore. I don't recognize her. We've known each other all our lives, always have been best friends. And now she is someone new, someone who may not always be my friend. The possibility never occurred to me, that Greer and I might not be close forever. I guess I see it now. It's more than a possibility. It's a reality. Maybe I've changed, too.

Lindsey lives farther from SDS than any of us, out of the rolling neighborhoods of mansions with swimming pools and tennis courts and outdoor saunas. She and her grandparents live a couple blocks from Stoneybrook University in an upper-middle class neighborhood more typical of Stoneybrook. Their house is a large white two-story with three front dormer windows and a yard full of overgrown crape myrtles that bloom vibrant pink, red, and purple in the springtime. I love visiting Lindsey's house.

Lindsey must be hovering at the front window, waiting for me, because the front door swings open as soon as I pull up to the curb. She hurries down the walk toward me. I know she's going stir-crazy and she still has two weeks left of her grounding.

"Sadie's home," is the first thing out of her mouth. "I honestly didn't expect her to be here. I'm sorry!"

I admit I have an ulterior motive for coming to Lindsey's house. Wes is picking me up here for our third date. I knew I couldn't meet him outside the Stoneybrook U. library forever without raising his suspicions. But he can't come to my house either. So, I told him to pick me up at Lindsey's. Lindsey knows I have a date and that it's a secret, although I've remained vague on the details. Lindsey doesn't seem to mind the secrecy. She thinks it's exciting.

I hoist my messenger bag onto my shoulder and shut the passenger side door. I frown at Lindsey, turning things over in my mind. "She won't mind my meeting my date here, will she?" I ask, although I'm really worrying that Dr. Dupree will want to meet him. She could ruin everything. "Or that I have to leave my car here?"

Lindsey shakes her head. "No, she won't mind," she assures me, as we walk up the front steps. "She's in her office. We'll ask her now. Maybe we'll get lucky and she'll leave!" Lindsey picks up her pace when we enter the house, jogging across the living room to the open door of Dr. Dupree's office. "Sadie!" she shouts, swinging around the doorframe.

Dr. Dupree jumps, startled, and holds her hand to her chest. "Don't scare me like that!" she scolds Lindsey. She's sitting at her computer with several books open on the desk. She's wearing a pair of glasses with large purple frames. A second pair, green ones, are sitting on her head. I wish Sally was here to see that Dr. Dupree is not an old woman. Of course, if Sally was here, she'd only say something nasty. Probably about the glasses.

"Sor-ry," Lindsey answers, irritably, then thinks better of putting her grandmother in a poor mood. "I'm sorry," she says more pleasantly. "I didn't mean to scare you. Now! Shannon's here and we're going to work on layout for the yearbook. That is okay, isn't it?" The last sentence comes out a bit tightly.

"Hello, Dr. Dupree," I greet her, leaning against the other side of the doorframe.

Dr. Dupree smiles at me. "Hello, Shannon. It's lovely to see you," she says, then looks at Lindsey. "Yes, Shannon may work on homework with you. There's lemon poppy seed cake in the kitchen, if you'd like a snack." She looks down at one of the books and resumes her typing.

Lindsey and I exchange a quick glance. "Sadie," Lindsey starts. "Shannon has a date and he's going to pick her up here. Is that all right?"

"Didn't you just break up with someone?" Dr. Dupree asks not glancing away from the computer.

"Yeah, he dumped her. The tulips, remember?" Lindsey confirms, causing me to groan, inwardly. Is there anyone who doesn't know about my break-up? "She's on the rebound," Lindsey continues.

"I am not."

"Who is this boy?" Dr. Dupree inquires, fingers still flying swiftly over the keys.

"Sadie," Lindsey whines.

Dr. Dupree finally looks up. "What?" she says, eyes sweeping over Lindsey and me. She stares at us a moment, then goes back to her typing. "It's fine with me. I trust Shannon to make responsible choices." Her eyes momentarily shift back to give Lindsey a pointed look.

"Thanks, Dr. Dupree," I reply, uneasily.

Lindsey huffs and grabs my hand, pulling me away from Dr. Dupree's office. She stomps up the staircase, her long blonde braid swinging side to side. It hangs passed her rear end. Lindsey hasn't cut her hair since second grade, which she's very proud of. "She is so embarrassing," Lindsey grumbles, as we reach the landing.

"She's not so bad," I disagree. Personally, I think it's nice to have someone concerned about what I am doing. No one has noticed in such a long time.

"Not so bad!" Lindsey repeats, throwing herself down on her bed. "No wonder my mother ran away when she was sixteen." Lindsey glances over at the framed photo on her desk. It's Lindsey as a baby on her mother's hip, her father standing beside them. Lindsey's mother looks a lot like Dr. Dupree with the same shoulder-length brown hair and friendly smile. Lindsey's father shares Lindsey's pinched face, the one that goes so well with that sour lemon look she often wears. This is the only photo I've ever seen of Lindsey's mother. It may be the only one that still exists. Nowhere else in the Dupree's house is there any suggestion that they have a daughter. All the photos are of Lindsey, starting from age two, nothing before, as if she suddenly materialized out of this air without a past.

We know the truth about Lindsey's parents because of Greer's mother. The Duprees moved to Stoneybrook from Hartford halfway through our kindergarten year. Lindsey was already telling her lie then, about her parents dying in a train wreck. Then Mrs. Carson went to a party out of town and met someone who knew the Duprees in Hartford. She told Mrs. Carson the truth, that Lindsey's mother reappeared one Saturday morning after no word for years with a husband and a two year old the Drs. Dupree didn't know existed. Her parents left Lindsey with the Drs. Dupree while they went to the supermarket for milk. They never came back.

"Wait until you hear their new punishment for me," Lindsey says, rolling onto her stomach, so she faces where I'm sitting at her desk. "George is speaking at some college in Pennsylvania tomorrow night. They're leaving in the morning and won't be back until Saturday afternoon. Do I get to stay home alone? No! I have to stay with the Jardins!" Lindsey makes her sour lemon expression.

"You could have stayed at my house," I tell her, taking my Italian book out of my messenger bag. We don't really have any layout to work on for the yearbook. Lindsey just told her grandmother that so I could come over.

"I asked. George and Sadie didn't think it was a good idea," Lindsey replies, then seeing my puzzled expression, plunges on. "Oh, they think you're great. But they said your parents wouldn't notice if you and your sisters ran naked through the streets of Stoneybrook. They don't trust me at your house with no supervision."

"Oh," I say, simply, looking down at my open book. I didn't realize other people knew.

Lindsey watches me a moment, then jumps up. "Want to see my new sunglasses?" she asks. Lindsey talks when she's nervous or uncomfortable, rattles on and on, filling up all possible space. She thinks she made a misstep with me. Lindsey slides a pair of enormous green and beige-striped sunglasses onto her face.

They're so ridiculous, I laugh. "Where did you get those?" I ask.

"Bellair's. Sadie and I went last night to get my outfit for the Creative Arts Faire. Mrs. Jardin picked it out," she says, gagging. Lindsey and Meg are performing a flute duet for the Creative Arts Faire. They'll perform Saturday night, too. "Mrs. Jardin is making us wearing floor-length black skirts with ivory-white blouses and pearls. And we have to wear our hair up. We're going to look so dumb. Sadie said to wear these sunglasses and maybe no one will recognize me." Lindsey laughs, then stops abruptly, remembering that she's angry at her grandmother.

"You won't look dumb," I promise.

"Maybe," Lindsey replies, unsurely. It matters a lot to her how she looks. "How was your rehearsal?"

I tell her about Sally White, both during the rehearsal and after, and how she and Greer walked away arm-in-arm, like old friends.

"So, she's chosen Greer again," Lindsey says, glumly, resting her chin in her hand. "I still don't understand why she never chose me."

I don't understand why Lindsey still cares. That was four years ago and Sally White is, quite obviously, a jerk. I was angry with Sally back then too, but I got over it and accepted that's how she is. She's someone who can't keep a friend, who must move from person to person. It isn't personal. The problem isn't with anyone but Sally. It bothers me that Lindsey hasn't realized this as well, that after all these years she's still brooding and picking herself apart.

"Who cares what Sally White thinks?" I ask, flipping to a fresh page in my notebook.

"That's easy for you to say. She likes you."

I laugh.

"No, she does. She likes you and Kristy. I can tell. She hates me. I don't know what she thinks of Greer, Meg, and Abby. She can't seem to make up her mind about them. I think she like respects you or something. You and Kristy don't give her a free pass to do and say whatever she wants. Kristy and I have her in our economics class. Every day, she steals my seat next to Kristy and every day, Kristy makes her move in back of us. They waste like five minutes of class time bickering every single day. I think Sally enjoys it."

I shrug and start writing out the first translation for my Italian homework. I'm tired of talking about Sally White and of thinking about her. Lindsey isn't. She twists her braid around her hand, wearing her sour lemon expression again. Pretty soon, the end of her braid is in her mouth. She takes out her economics book, opens it on her lap, and sits there on the bed, cross-legged, chewing on her hair. I don't say anything. I pretend not to notice.

Lindsey and I work on our homework until a quarter til seven, occasionally chatting and discussing our assignments. At some point, Lindsey stops chewing on her hair. Wes is coming for me at seven-twenty. Our movie's at seven forty-five. We're going to such a late movie because of all my homework. My mind will be at ease knowing I've completed everything that's due tomorrow. Otherwise, I couldn't enjoy the movie and our date. Plus...the later the movie, the less likely I'll see anyone I know.

"Are you hungry?" Lindsey asks, slamming her sociology book shut.

I shrug. "A little. I'm eating later tonight though."

"We'll see what's in the kitchen," Lindsey says, hopping off the bed. I follow her out of the room, throwing with my messenger bag over my shoulder. On the first floor, Dr. Dupree's still in her office, typing on the computer, most likely oblivious to the time. Lindsey's grandfather isn't home yet. The house is very quiet except for the clicking of Dr. Dupree's keyboard. In the kitchen, Lindsey and I eat the lemon poppy seed cake right off the platter. It momentarily occurs to me to call home and ask if Tiffany and Maria ate a balanced dinner. Then I remember that Tiffany has a date with Tyler Austen (despite my disapproval. She should be doing her homework) and Maria's eating over at a friend's house.

"It's almost seven-twenty," I tell Lindsey, glancing at the clock on the microwave.

Lindsey smiles. "Can I meet him?" She has a poppy seed stuck in her teeth.

"Uh...not yet. I don't want to freak him out by introducing him to all my friends," I explain, feeling that pang of guilt again. "He might think I'm getting too serious."

Lindsey nods. "I understand. I'll watch from my bedroom window. Very discreetly, I promise."

I hesitate. That's not so bad. It's dark out. She won't see him clearly and no way will she be able to guess at his age. Lindsey leaves me to wait in the living room while she runs upstairs. I peek through the curtains. Behind me, I hear the clicking off Dr. Dupree's keyboard. I set my messenger bag on the armchair and hurry to the door of her office, which is still open. I knock lightly on the doorframe. She holds up a finger and keeps typing with one hand, then hits a key very hard and turns to face me.

"Are you leaving, Shannon?" she asks, smiling. She's now wearing the glasses with the green frames. The purple ones are sitting on top of the computer.

"Soon," I answer, then hesitate, gathering my thoughts and words. "Dr. Dupree, I thought you should know, Lindsey's chewing her hair again."

The smile disappears from her face. "Oh," she says. "I hadn't noticed. Thank you for telling me." A worried frown crosses her face. She spins around in her chair and pulls a book off the shelf. She doesn't turn around again.

The doorbell rings. I rush to answer it, grabbing my bag off the armchair. I hadn't intended for Wes to come to the door. I was going to watch out the window and meet him on the porch. I open the door and slip outside. "Hi Wes," I greet him, smiling.

He smiles back. "Hi Shannon. Is this your house?" he asks.

"No, my friend's house. We've been studying," I explain, closing the front door.

"It looks like you have quite a load there. Do you want me to carry your bag?"

"No. It's okay. Just let me put my books in my car."

Wes waits for me beside the Volvo, holding open the passenger side door. I try to hurry, knowing Lindsey's staring at us and that any minute, her grandfather could drive up or her grandmother pass by a window. They would know Wes is too old. They would put a stop to this.

"You look great," Wes tells me when we're in the car. I changed in Lindsey's room. I'm wearing Anna's Shetland sweater with a mid-calf length black skirt, lightweight and flowing, perfect for autumn.

"Thanks! You look great, too," I reply, which probably sounds kind of lame. But he does look nice even if he is just wearing jeans and a gray pullover. He smells even better than he looks. Like rich and spicy aftershave. It makes me happy knowing it's all for me. "I was thinking about you last night," I tell him.

He raises an eyebrow. "Really? In what context?" He grins.

I laugh. "My little sister was watching television and this commercial came on for Ellenburg Marine Supply. Is that really your father?"

Wes groans. "In the skipper hat? Yes, that is my father, I am embarrassed to admit."

"Does he know that beard looks fake?" I ask, laughing. "And that the parrot is obviously not actually singing?"

Another groan. "I know, I know. I've told him a million times. He doesn't listen."

"Why aren't you in the commercials, too? You could be his first mate. Or the cabin boy."

"Would you want to be in one of those commercials?" Wes replies, which is a fair point. I wouldn't. "And I don't want to be on television. I'd be too embarrassed. I don't like the thought of everyone looking at me, even if it is only on television." Wes turns the Volvo onto Essex, one of the main streets in downtown Stoneybrook. "And actually, I was almost in a commercial once. I was sixteen and my parents forced me. I looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Needless to say, that footage was not used." Wes laughs.

"That's too bad. You'd probably sell a lot of boats," I tell him.

"Really? Thanks!"

When we step out of the car, I do a quick check of the street. It's deserted and inside Stoneybrook Cinema, there are only a few older people milling around. Wes buys our tickets, then slips an arm around my shoulders as we walk inside. He does it very casually, not gripping my shoulder hard or pulling me too tight against him. It's nice. Relaxed and comfortable.

"I'm buying the popcorn and soda," I tell him, as we cross the lobby toward the concession stand.

"If you insist."

There's only one register open with only one person in line. Wes and I wait patiently, chatting about our favorite movie theater candy. I like hot tamales. Wes like sno-caps, which are absolutely disgusting. Finally, the girl in front of us pays and it's our turn in line. The girl turns around and I gasp out loud.

It's Janet. I was so consumed with talking to Wes that I didn't even recognize her from the back, like I normally would. Her eyes flick from me to Wes, her already buggy eyes nearly popping out of her skull. She almost jams her soda straw up her nose.

"What are you doing here?" I exclaim.

Janet stares at me. "I'm seeing a movie," she answers. "My girlfriends are in town for Homecoming." Janet points to her left, where three girls with big hair and too much make-up are piling jalapenos on their nachos at the condiment station. "They just arrived this afternoon. They're ditching the rest of this week's classes." All of Janet's friends went away to the University of Bridgeport this year, leaving Janet behind to file and answer phones at her father's office and raise Amy.

An awkward silence falls between us. This is it. My lies are about to be exposed. Wes will never speak to me again. My heart starts pounding in my chest, so loud I can hear it. I wonder if Wes and Janet hear it too.

Wes sticks out his hand to Janet. "I'm Wes Ellenburg," he says.

Janet takes his hand and shakes it, limply. "I'm Janet Thomas," she replies, then shoots me a questioning look.

"Do you go to Stoneybrook University, too?" Wes asks.

"Oh, you go to Stoneybrook U.!" Janet says, sounding slightly relieved. Obviously, she suspects he's way too old for me.

"No, I graduated a few years ago. I meant, do you and Shannon go to Stoneybrook U. together?"

Janet's eyes sort of pop again. I hold my breath. It's coming. It's coming. Right here in the middle of Stoneybrook Cinema, in front of the concession worker and Janet's big haired friends.

Janet purses her lips and tilts her head to the side. "Um...no, I don't," she answers. "Shannon lives across the street from my mother-in-law."

And that's it.

She says nothing else.

Wes appears oblivious that anything unspoken has passed between Janet and I. He doesn't realize something is amiss or detect the discomfort. I'm certain my shoulders have tightened, how can he not feel that?

"Are you also seeing the Franz Ferdinand biopic?" Wes asks Janet.

Janet wrinkles her nose. "No. We're seeing the Carson Fraser musical," she replies, then turns toward me. "Well...I guess I better go. I'll see you tomorrow at Homecoming. I am really looking forward to talking to you." Janet smiles, tightly at me. "Nice meeting you, Wes." Then she turns and walks toward her friends yelling, "Michelle! Liz! Leslie! Wait for me!"

"Your friend's a little odd," Wes comments, then says nothing more about Janet.

I worry all through the movie. What if Janet tells Sam? Or worse, Kristy? Everything will be ruined. And everyone will know about my lies. My soda tastes very flat, so I spend most of the movie chewing on the straw. Maybe this is why Lindsey chews her hair. It's something to do while thinking and fretting. Wes keeps his arm around my shoulders through the entire movie. I lean toward him a bit, as I gnaw on the straw, realizing that possibly we won't go out again. This could be it.

"Wasn't that great?" Wes asks me, as we file out of the theater. "Although, honestly, I think Cam Geary was miscast as the Black Hand assassin. He doesn't exactly look like a Serbian, does he?"

"Huh?" I reply, distractedly, checking out the lobby, as if I suspect Janet might pop out of nowhere, having decided to expose me. I shake back my hair. I have to snap out of it. She didn't say anything. I don't need to worry. "Yes, and his wig didn't fit too well, did it?"

"You noticed that, too!" Wes laughs, slipping his arm around my shoulders again.

"The actress playing Sophie was very beautiful. I've never seen her before."

"Oh, she was all right," Wes replies, grinning down at me. "Do you want to walk across the street to Thelma's Cafe? It's after ten. I'm not sure if anything else is still open.

I'm not very hungry and actually, I don't know if I can choke anything down. But I nod anyway. "Sure! My friends and I go there all the time. Thelma's has the best pie."

We don't order pie though. I order seasoned curly fries and a glass of water. Wes orders a chicken club with fries and coffee. "Isn't it a little late for coffee?" I ask him when the waitress leaves.

Wes shrugs. "It never keeps me up. I'm blessed. Hey, your friend from earlier mentioned the SHS Homecoming. You're going?"

The waitress brings our drinks and I wait for her to leave before answering. "Yes. My friends from the SDS volleyball team - remember them? - their friend is up for Homecoming Queen. They invited me to go along." I wonder if he thinks I'm weird, hanging around with high schoolers. "A bunch of people are going. My friend, Kristy, that's Janet's sister-in-law, her whole family is going. Her oldest brother's driving down from New Britain. I've never been to a Homecoming, that's why I'm going," I add.

"I went to the SHS Homecoming with my aunt and cousins last year. If I go again this year, I'll look for you. I can meet your friends."

Luckily, the waitress arrives with our food, so I don't have to respond right away. I have time to swallow the lump in my throat. When the waitress leaves, I pick up a fry and stare at it with no appetite. "That'd be great," I say, dully, then realizing how I sound attempt to perk up. "Maybe we could meet somewhere," I suggest. "The SHS stadium is huge. You'd never find me. We could meet at half-time before the floats and crownings."

Wes nods. "Good idea. I'll call you tomorrow afternoon about my plans," Wes says, then bites into his sandwich.

It's after eleven o' clock when Wes drives me back to Lindsey's house. He pulls up behind my Explorer and turns off the engine. Lights are still on in Lindsey's bedroom and downstairs. Her grandparents have left on the porch light, as well.

I unlatch my seatbelt. "Thanks, Wes, I had a really good time," I tell him. I wonder if it will be the last time. I hope not.

"I had fun, too," he agrees, then leans over and kisses me, softly. His lips linger on mine and I kiss him back, a bit harder than he kissed me. He slips his tongue into my mouth and his hand into my hair. There's a strange, fluttery feeling in my stomach. I feel very lightheaded. And still, despite the lightheaded feeling, it occurs to me that we're parked out on the street in front of the Duprees' house. Lindsey could be watching, or worse yet, her grandparents and at any moment they could pound on the windshield and ruin everything. And everything could be ruined soon enough, as it is.

I pull back. "I have to go home. Early class, you know," I say, opening my door. "Thanks again, Wes."

Wes smiles. "I'll call you tomorrow. Good night, Shannon!" he calls, as I shut the door.

My parents are actually home when I pull into the garage between their cars. The house itself is dark. No one thought to leave a light on for me. Maybe no one realizes I'm gone. I wouldn't expect anything less from my parents. I flick on the foyer light as I pass through and in the shadows see my father in his study, asleep in his leather armchair, a tumbler of amber liquid resting in his lap. I go into the study and remove the tumbler from his hand and the glasses from his face. Then I cover him with a yellow plaid blanket. I flick off the foyer light and go upstairs.


	11. Chapter 11

As expected, the Thomas-Brewer house is in utter chaos on Friday evening when I walk in the front door. I don't even bother knocking. I doubt anyone would hear me. Emily Michelle nearly crashes into me on her bike, which she's riding around the foyer. Her training wheels are a bit unbalanced and so the bike tilts slightly to the left. David Michael runs past me into the kitchen with a diaper on his head. Somewhere, Shannon (the dog, not me) is barking like crazy and someone - Elizabeth? - is shouting about socks.

Basically, all is normal here.

"Hello!" I call up the stairs. "Kristy! It's Shannon!"

Kristy bounds down the stairs. She's wearing jeans and a SDS sweatshirt, just like me. "I'm so glad you're here!" she cries. "Now we can leave! Rick is driving us nuts! If I have to hear one more time about how amazing and gorgeous Cokie Mason is, I am going to _puke_!" Kristy clutches her throat and pretends to gag. Rick Jones is Charlie Thomas' roommate at Central Connecticut. They grew up together here in Stoneybrook. Rick has dated Cokie Mason since our sophomore year. Since Rick's parents moved to Indiana last year, he stays with the Thomas-Brewers when he comes into town. The few times Cokie has shown up at the house, Kristy's nearly had a coronary.

"Charlie and Rick are already here?" I reply.

"Yeah, they're in the game room with Abby and Anna. You missed it - Rick and Abby held David Michael down and Charlie taped one of Amy's diapers over his head. It was pretty funny," Kristy laughs.

"Wait - _Anna's_ upstairs?" I ask, confused. "Anna _Stevenson_?" This morning, Abby told us Anna was for sure _not_ coming.

Kristy holds out her arms and raises her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "I don't know. Charlie and Rick picked her up on their way through New Haven. Even Abby was surprised when she walked in."

What is going on?

"Mrs. Stevenson doesn't know Anna's here," Kristy continues. "She's still at work, of course. Apparently, Anna intends to hide from her all weekend." Kristy shrugs again, letting me know she's as clueless as I am. "Oh, yeah, Janet's looking for you. She's been pestering me for half an hour, so _please_ go talk to her. I think she's in the kitchen." Kristy starts back up the stairs. "I'll go get everyone!" she calls down to me.

I watch Kristy rush upstairs, then disappear around a corner. I turn slowly toward the kitchen and walk as if heading to me execution. After last night, I pushed Janet from my thoughts, attempting to forget what she saw and what it could mean for me. I haven't rehearsed anything to say, neither the truth nor a clever lie.

Janet's alone in the kitchen, chopping celery. "What are you doing?" I ask, as casually as possible, leaning against the counter.

"Elizabeth told me to get Emily Michelle's dinner ready. She's staying home with Nannie."

"Where's Amy?"

"At home. Sara Hill's baby-sitting," she answers, then stares at me a moment. Those buggy eyes are kind of creepy. Janet drops the knife and pushes me into the walk-in pantry, pulling the door shut behind us. "Are you _insane_?" she demands. "Dating a thirty year old man?"

"He's not thirty. He's twenty-six," I reply.

Janet's jaw drops. "_Twenty-six_? He's too old for _me._ Have you completely lost your mind?"

"I am of perfectly sound mind. Wes is very sweet and I like him very much. We have a lot in common."

"He thinks you're in college!"

I toss my hair over my shoulder and fold my arms. I don't look at her.

"Does he know you're only seventeen?" Janet asks.

I shake my head. "No. He thinks I'm twenty," I admit, quietly. "He isn't a pervert. He's a really nice guy."

"A really nice guy who you're lying to. I thought you were supposed to be smart? Are you planning to keep this up forever? Just continue lying to him? You're going to get caught. You're going to get caught and he's going to be really, really, really mad. Have you thought about that?"

Honestly, I hadn't thought much about it. Every time I begin to worry, I push those worries away, burying them where I bury all my undesirable thoughts and feelings. I haven't given much consideration to how long I can carry on this charade, how deep I'll get in before I can no longer bail out. I chew on the inside of my cheek, watching Janet watch me, waiting for my response. It doesn't come.

Janet takes a deep breath. "Shannon..." she begins, her voice sounding serious and weighted, "he is twenty-six years old. That's _nine_ years difference. He isn't a teenage boy, he's a grown man. He is going to have certain expectations - "

I cut her off. I've actually thought about this. "No, it's not like that. It's better that he's an adult. He isn't some hormone-crazed teenager. I need someone mature, someone I can have a real relationship with," I tell her. I think of Mick, one of those hormone-crazed teenage boys, always pleading and hassling me, trying to slide his fingers into my panties. _Shannon, Shannon, Shannon, don't you love me? Prove it, prove it._ I don't need that again.

Janet isn't convinced. "A real relationship built on lies," she replies, reproachfully.

A sudden wave of anger rises inside me. Who is Janet to lecture me? If she were so smart, so savvy about sex and relationships, she'd be at the University of Bridgeport with all her friends, not miserable with a baby and a lecherous husband. "Is it so wrong to want someone to care about me?" I snap, angrily. "Someone to think about me and worry about me and want to be with me? Wes _likes_ me. Maybe I've lied about my age and where I go to school, but everything else is me."

Janet stares at me, frowning. "Fine," she says. "Do what you want. I won't stop you."

The pantry door swings open and Charlie Thomas leans in. "What's going on in here?" he asks, grinning. "Or should I not ask?"

Janet turns her bug-eyed stare onto him. "Yes, Charlie," she says. "Shannon and I are trysting in the pantry. Shh - don't tell."

Charlie waggles his eyebrows at us. "I'll get the video camera."

"Excuse me," I say, sliding passed Charlie into the kitchen.

When I return to the foyer, all the Thomas-Brewers are gathered there, plus the Stevenson twins and Rick Jones. The foyer is a thunder of loud conversations overlapping, fighting to drown the others out. I slip in next to Anna and place my arm around her waist. She's dressed in brown cords with a pink t-shirt and gray zip-up sweatshirt. She looks very out of place with Kristy, Abby, and I wearing jeans and matching sweatshirts.

"I'm so pleased you changed your mind," I tell her.

Anna shrugs. "I didn't want to disappoint anyone by missing the play," she replies, quietly.

"I'm excited for you to see it."

Fweet! Fweet!

All conversation halts as everyone's head whips around toward the staircase. Then we collectively groan. Kristy's standing on the bottom stair with her silver whistle in her mouth, flagging her arms like a cop directing traffic. Seeing everyone's eyes on her, she blows the whistle again.

"Kristy, don't make me make you eat that whistle," Sam growls.

Elizabeth nods. "Really, Kristy, let's leave the whistle at home."

"But it's for crowd control!" Kristy protests.

"And we are our own crowd," Abby adds.

Elizabeth makes Kristy take off the whistle anyway. "Is everyone ready?" Elizabeth asks when the whistle is safely in her coat pocket. "Where's Charlie?"

"Right here," Charlie calls, coming from the direction of the kitchen with Janet following behind him.

"Oh, Janet was missing, too?" Sam asks, snidely. "I hadn't noticed."

Charlie thumps him upside the head. "Knock it off," he orders.

Watson splits us into groups as we walk out the front door. We're taking two vehicles to SHS, Watson's Suburban and Charlie's car. My friends and I are all supposed to ride in the Suburban, but since Sam and David Michael purposely ignore Watson's instructions, Anna and I end up in Charlie's car with Charlie, Rick, and Janet. Anna sits in the middle, separating Janet and I. Charlie, Rick, and Janet talk the entire way. Anna and I don't say much.

The Homecoming game begins at six-thirty. We arrive at six twenty-five. Watson and Charlie are football freaks and refuse to miss a minute of the game. Our group of eleven meets outside the stadium, which already looks packed, at least on the SHS side. There aren't nearly as many spectators on the Sheridan High side. Watson's just taken out his wallet, counting out the admission when Kristy suddenly gets an alarmed look in her eyes. She links her arms through mine and Anna's and begins to herd everyone toward the stadium entrance.

"Okay, okay, let's get a move on," Kristy exclaims, pushing into Sam and David Michael. "I just saw Jessi Ramsey climb out of her dad's car. Let's move, people. We don't want any trouble."

Abby laughs. "Yeah, she might have another tomato!"

Once in the stadium, Kristy drops my arm, which allows me to walk close to Anna. She's taller than me and makes a good shield. Wes called this afternoon and said he and his aunt and cousins wouldn't arrive until after seven. But what if they changed their plans? He also mentioned his aunt prefers to sit near the stadium entrance, so she can be the first to leave when the game ends. I intend to ensure that we sit as far from the entrance as possible. Wes and I are meeting in front of the snack bar during half-time. I don't have a plan beyond that point.

"Hey, there's Claudia!" Abby shouts, waving an arm in the air, and jogging up the steps toward where Claudia and Erica Blumberg are sitting.

I look around. We're a pretty good distance from the entrance. I touch Elizabeth's arm. "There's an entire empty row up there," I tell her, pointing to the back of the bleachers. The very last row is free.

Elizabeth nods and leads the way up the bleachers. Abby's plopped down beside Erica, already in a rush of conversation and eating from a bag of Gummy Worms Claudia's holding out. Anna and I hang back, letting the rest of the Thomas-Brewers pass, and even Kristy, despite her feelings about Claudia, stops. Kristy, blunt and tactless Kristy, cannot hold back the question currently burning in Anna's and my throats.

"_What_ is on your sweatshirt?" Kristy exclaims.

Claudia looks down at her sweatshirt, then pulls the hem tight, so we have a clear view. "It's Mary Anne, of course," she answers, simply. "It took me all week."

Kristy, Anna, and I stare. Finally, Anna says, "That's a lot of sequins."

"Awesome, Claud!" Abby adds, giving Claudia a high-five.

We say goodbye to Claudia and Erica, then climb the rest of the steps to the back row. "That's what she's wasting her life on?" Kristy cries when Claudia and Erica are out of earshot.

"Think of it this way," Anna replies, "if SDS makes the volleyball playoffs, she might do you and Abby."

Did Anna Stevenson just make a joke? Sullen, distant Anna? I grin at her as we take our seats. She smiles wryly. I've never been to a football game before. After five minutes, I learn it's very boring. Even Kristy and Abby, the sports nuts, appear rather disinterested. Watson, Charlie, Sam, and David Michael watch the game intently though, randomly leaping out of their seats and cheering. Down at the other end of our row, Elizabeth's wearing her reading glasses with a book open in her lap. When Kristy announces she's starving, we take everyone's orders and head down to the snack bar. While in line, we run into several old baby-sitting charges, all of whom are in middle school now and hanging around under the bleachers.

"I feel old," Kristy says when Vanessa Pike and Haley Braddock walk away from us to rejoin their friends.

"You are old," replies Abby. "In fact, you're practically ancient."

Kristy rolls her eyes, then steps up to the counter to place our order. We're loaded down with sodas, nachos, and corn dogs as we climb back up the bleachers. I have great difficulty balancing four nachos in my hands. Claudia and Erica are now sitting with a blonde and brunette when we pass and we all say quick hellos. I think Abby hisses at one of them.

"This corn dog is cold!" Abby exclaims when we take our seats and begin eating. She spits the piece she's chewed into a napkin. My corn dog tastes fine.

"This is diet, I wanted regular," Janet tells Kristy, leaning around Rick.

Kristy shrugs. "Too bad."

"Just drink it," Sam snaps. "The diet will do you good."

I don't see it happen, but I think Charlie thumps him on the head again.

Abby nudges me, sharply in the ribs. "Hey, watch this," she says, standing up. She lifts her corn dog over her head. "The SHS volleyball team sucks!" she shrieks and hurls the corn dog down at Claudia's friends. But she overthrows and instead hits a red-haired woman in the back of the head. We duck as the woman whirls around.

"You really need to get over this volleyball thing," I tell Abby, crouched down in the bleachers.

"I got cheese on my jeans! Thanks, Abby," Kristy grumbles, but then laughs.

"You can get up now," Janet tells us, grouchily. "She turned back around."

I decide that maybe football games aren't so bad after all. At least as long as I'm not watching the game. Anna remains rather silent, but Abby's more her old self, cracking horrible jokes, imitating people in the stands. Kristy, Abby, and I are enjoying ourselves. I hope Anna is too. Charlie slides by us to buy Janet the correct soda, which causes Kristy to roll her eyes at me. I bite my tongue so I won't point out that at least one of her brothers isn't a cretin.

Awhile later, after we finish our food and sodas, Kristy makes us go back down the bleachers to say hello to Stacey McGill, who's sitting with Claudia and their friends. It's strange and awkward. I've probably seen Stacey once or twice a year since the BSC broke up. And I never know what to say to her. She isn't like Claudia, who has managed to stay friends with everyone. I think of Greer as we trudge back up to our seats, Greer who skipped out on the game to see a movie with Sally White. _What do I care about the SHS Homecoming? _she asked, _I've met this Mary Anne girl twice. _She has a point, but I know she's drifting away from me, further and further, until one day we'll see each other and not know what to say.

Sam is watching us as we climb back up to our seats. "What did Stacey say?" he demands.

"Nothing about you," Kristy replies, testily.

"Should I go down there? Maybe I should say hello."

"If you bother Stacey McGill, I'll toss you off these bleachers," Charlie barks from down the row. At least someone in this family realizes Sam's a creep.

"Really, Charlie, that isn't necessary," Elizabeth scolds, not glancing up from her book.

When half-time comes around, Janet leaves to find her friends. As soon as she disappears down the bleachers, I make a show of checking my watch. "Oh! I should call Maria," I tell my friends, standing up. "Where's a payphone?"

"Uh..." Kristy replies, also standing. "Over by the locker rooms."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Anna asks.

"No, that's okay," I answer, peeling off my SDS sweatshirt. I'm wearing a navy blue thermal underneath. "I'm a little hot," I say, laying the sweatshirt on my seat.

"You better hurry," Kristy advises. "If the floats start rolling, you'll get stuck on the Sheridan side."

"Okay," I reply, nodding and start down the bleachers. When I reach the bottom, I glance back at my friends. They wave and guilt washes over me. I hurry on toward the snack bar. I'm surprised to find Wes standing beside the counter, happily chatting with Haley and Vanessa, who are giggling and tossing their hair. I jump quickly behind the snack bar. They must be his students. I never considered that he might teach kids I used to baby-sit. I peek around the corner. I must look ridiculous. When Haley and Vanessa finally retreat, I come out of hiding, sidling up to Wes.

"Hello," I greet him.

"Hey! Here, I bought you a soda," he says, handing me a cup.

"Thank you. I'm feeling claustrophobic, let's take a walk," I say, steering him toward the Sheridan side of the stadium. "Were those your students?" I ask, taking a sip of my soda. Diet, the same I ordered at the movies. He remembered.

"Yeah, those were two of my students. From my pre-algebra class."

"They were flirting with you."

Wes glances at me, startled. "What? No, I don't think so."

I laugh. "Yes, they were. You must get that a lot though. Girls with crushes on you."

Wes shrugs, as we climb the stairs to the bleachers on the Sheridan side. "I've gotten a few love letters. A few poems," he replies, trying to sound nonchalant, but looking a tad uncomfortable. "It's a little embarrassing."

"I bet. Let's sit down," I tell him, lowering onto a front row bleacher. The first float is rolling out from behind the locker rooms. Kristy will assume I didn't heed her warning and got stuck. That'll buy me some time. "It's much nicer on this side. Are you having fun?"

Wes smiles. "Better now," he answers, then laughs. "Okay, that was corny. Honestly, I'm not that interested in sports. I thought the Homecoming game was deathly dull last year. It's not any more thrilling this year."

"I've never been to a football game before. I think this will be my first and last," I say, completely forgetting to watch the floats or for Mary Anne. "But on the way here, I heard the new Great Blue Whales song on the radio."

"I heard it in the car this morning! It was a lot better than most of their recent stuff. 'Sister Sally' will always be their best song though."

I groan. "Please don't say that name to me."

"You don't like that song?"

I shake my head. "No, that's not it," I answer, then sigh. I explain about Sally White in the vaguest terms possible. I try not to seem too upset. Anger is not very becoming. Wes is an excellent listener. He nods every now and then and actually appears interested. I hope my problem doesn't sound like the stupid little high school problem it is.

When I finish, Wes furrows his brow. "So, is this girl a bit...unstable?" he asks, seriously.

I nod, enthusiastically. "Yes! I think she is!"

Wes and I haven't been paying attention to what's going on out on the field and are startled when people begin shrieking. Our heads snap up, quickly. Out on the field, the sprinklers have come on. I think I see Mary Anne running off the field with her arms over her head. "Is this...is this a tradition?" I ask, puzzled.

Wes looks puzzled, too. "Uh...I don't think so. This didn't happen last year. Wow. The Homecoming Queen looks mad."

Several people knock into us, crowding against the railing for a better view. Wes and I move back a row and continue our conversation. Slowly, people wander away from the railing. Someone makes an announcement over the loudspeaker, but Wes and I ignore that, too. We're lost in each other.

"Shannon?"

My head whips around. Anna's standing on the platform, staring at me. I stare back, all words escaping me. Caught again. My heart begins to pound.

"Hi Anna," I say, weakly.

Anna looks from me to Wes and back again. "Elizabeth sent me to look for you," she explains in an oddly tight voice. "She was worried. She's ready to leave. So are Kristy and Abby. But...I guess you're busy." Anna turns and walks away.

How could I get so lucky twice?

Wait! How can I think this is _lucky_?

"Is something wrong, Shannon?" Wes asks, confused.

"No, no," I assure him, shakily, standing up. "That's just my friend, Anna. The violinist I told you about."

Wes still looks confused. "Oh..." he says. "_Oh_...you didn't tell her you were meeting me, did you?"

"No, I didn't," I admit, which is the truth. "I thought...it doesn't matter. I should have told her. I'm sorry, Wes. I have to go."

Wes nods. "I understand. I hope this doesn't cause any problems for you," he replies. "I'll call you!" he shouts after me, as I hurry across the platform.

Maybe I _am_ lucky.

Anna's already passing the snack bar when I catch up to her. "Anna! Wait!" I yell, sprinting the last few yards. Anna stops and waits. I stop in front of her, out of breath. Maybe I should have signed up for a phys. ed. class this semester. I'm already out of shape. "Anna, I can explain."

Anna raises her eyebrows. "You can explain why you were draped all over a forty year old man?"

"He isn't forty! He's twenty-six," I reply, testily. I take a deep breath. I must regain control. "He's only twenty-six," I say, much more calmly. "We've been dating, but it's a secret. I can explain everything if you give me a chance. Just...don't be mad at me."

Anna hesitates. "I'm not mad," she finally says. "I'm...confused. Were you sneaking around with him last weekend? Is that why you blew me off? And Kristy?"

I nod, guiltily. "Yes...and that was wrong. I don't know what's happening to me, Anna. I've become such a - " I almost say _liar_. Can I admit that? Out loud to another person? No. Saying it would make it too real and then I'd have to face the truth. "A sneak. And I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you." I shiver, suddenly realizing how cold it is. "You haven't been honest with me either."

Anna pushes a curl out of her eye. "I know," she says. She pauses, watching me intently. The curl falls back over her eye and she pushes it away again. "Come over tomorrow," she says.

"Why?"

Anna hesitates again. "Just come over. You can tell me about your forty year old and I'll tell you...something." Then Anna starts to walk away, back toward the bleachers.

I follow behind her, not asking questions. I can't press her or else she may change her mind. She may change her mind anyway. There's a lot of time between now and tomorrow. But right now I am close to knowing what has bothered her so long. And right now my own secret is safe.

Kristy, Abby, and Elizabeth are standing by the railing when we climb the stairs to the platform. "I told you you'd get stuck on the other side," is the first thing Kristy says to me.

I roll my eyes at her.

"You missed Mary Anne," Abby tells me. "She just left. Isn't Homecoming fantastic? Mass hysteria, sprinklers, Grace Blume throwing a tantrum in front of hundreds of people! We should have come last year!"

"I don't think this happens every year," Elizabeth says, handing me my sweatshirt, which I tie around my waist.

I loop my arm through Anna's as we walk toward the stairs. Ahead of us, Kristy and Abby are chatting, excitedly, rehashing all the details I missed. By the entrance, we pass Claudia and Erica's friend from Bart's party, the one with the neon green headband. She's dripping wet with mud streaked across her dress. She's screeching at some women, waving her arms madly.

"I guess Grace Blume's not the only one upset about Homecoming," Kristy observes with a laugh. "Can we stop for ice cream, Mom?"

"Ice cream and pie!" Abby yells.

"I'm not very hungry," I say, glancing over at Anna, who I'm still arm-in-arm with. She's looking in the other direction, her expression unreadable. I don't think she's heard a word.

"You can get a soda," Kristy tells me. "Thelma's, Mom?"

Elizabeth nods, digging through her purse for the keys to the Suburban. "A quick stop," she says, unlocking the door.

We climb into the Suburban and drive off into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

"Don't forget about the Creative Arts Faire," I remind my parents. I'm standing in the kitchen by the center island, twisting off the lid of the peanut butter jar, preparing an early lunch for my sisters and I. For once my parents are home, together in the same room and not screaming their heads off. I think it's because they're ignoring each other, simply as if the other does not exist. "The performances start at seven, but the auditorium opens at six. Try to come early."

"_All right_, Shannon," Mom replies, testily. She's standing at the sink pouring coffee into a travel cup. "You've told me twenty times."

Dad's near the doorway, wearing ridiculous brown plaid pants and swinging his new golf club. "What Creative Arts Faire?" he asks. Obviously, twenty times was not enough for him.

"The Creative Arts Faire at our school? The one we've been talking about for weeks? I wrote a play, Tiffany created a collage, and Maria's tap dancing. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Dad says, absently, taking another swing.

"Seven o' clock. Don't forget."

"I won't."

Tiffany snorts from where she's sitting on the counter, crunching noisily on a carrot.

"Mom?" I say.

"Yes, I'll be there!" she snaps. "And now I'm late. I have an Open House in New Hope at noon. I'll never make it on time."

"Mom?" Maria says from the table. "About the entomology club - "

"Whatever it is, I don't have time!" Mom cuts her off, sharply. "Tell Shannon. She'll take care of it." And without another word, Mom rushes out of the kitchen. The front door slams.

A few seconds later, a car horn blasts outside. "Ah, Phil," Dad says, glancing at his watch. "Right on time." Phil is Mr. Jardin, Meg's father. "Have fun, girls."

"Don't forget!" I call out, but he's already gone.

"They aren't coming," Tiffany tells me, hopping off the counter and dipping her carrot in the peanut butter jar. "I hope you realize that."

I don't look at her. I continue spreading creamy peanut butter on a slice of sourdough bread. I cut off the crusts just like Maria likes. "They might," I reply, stiffly.

"Yeah, right."

After lunch, I run upstairs to brush my teeth, then I leave for Anna's house. She told me to come over at noon. She didn't have much to say last night while everyone else enjoyed their pie and ice cream at Thelma's Cafe. She ordered french apple, then pushed it around her plate, oblivious to Kristy and Abby's animated conversation. When Elizabeth dropped me off outside my house, Anna said, "Come over at noon," and that was all.

I knock loudly on the front door and ring the bell. I wait a few seconds, then peer through the glass paneling on the door. The Stevenson house looks dark and empty, as usual. When Abby's home alone, she turns on all the lights, as if it will make her feel less lonely and more like a family lives there. Tired of waiting, I open the door and walk in, calling out to Anna, then to Abby and Mrs. Stevenson. No one answers. I hear the soft sound of Anna's violin drifting down the stairs. When Anna plays, she enters her own world, blocking out this one. I could call and call until my voice goes hoarse and she would never hear. I pass through the foyer and living room, filled with antique cherrywood furniture covered in a thin layer of dust. I rarely come over here, even during the summers and holidays when Anna's home. Honestly, the house gives me the creeps. It's like walking through a museum or a ghost town, silent and uninhabited. The white and beige striped couch in the living room looks as new as the day the furniture store delivered it, no worn spots or stains.

Anna's bedroom door is open. She's seated in a high-backed wooden chair, very straight, facing the window, her bow sliding slowly over the violin strings, filling the air with a mournful song. Anna's bedroom is like the rest of the house, oddly ordered and untouched. I lean against the doorframe, listening and waiting for her to finish.

"Anna?" I say when the song ends and her bow stills.

Anna startles slightly and turns her head. "Oh, Shannon," she says, surprised. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in."

I smile. "That's okay. Where's Abby and your mom?"

"Mom didn't come home last night. There was a message for Abby on the machine when we came home. Mom had a lot of work to finish. She decided to stay over at her office. She bought a futon a couple years ago so she could do that," Anna answers, leaning over her open violin case, so I can't see her expression. "Abby's at volleyball practice. It was last minute."

"I'm not sure any amount of practice can save the team at this point," I admit, realizing it's a little rude to say so to Abby's twin. But it is the truth.

Anna nods. "So I've heard."

I finger the silver chain around my neck, watching Anna latch the violin case and slide it under the bed. "Do you want to talk?" I ask, bluntly, not able to help myself. We can't spend the afternoon standing around her bedroom in politely stilted conversation.

"Yeah," Anna replies. "Let's go downstairs though." Anna slides passed me in the doorway and begins down the stairs. I follow her into the kitchen, where the curtains are drawn. The kitchen is hardly ever used since Abby eats most of her meals with the Thomas-Brewers. Most of the appliances are covered in dust, like the furniture, all except the coffee maker. Anna takes two mugs from the cabinet and fills them with coffee. She spoons plenty of sugar and cream into mine, knowing that's the only way I'll drink it. I resist the urge to find a rag and wipe down the kitchen. Instead, I take a seat at the table and wait for Anna to join me.

"Tell me about your forty year old," Anna says, setting a mug in front of me. It's the Elvis one I gave Abby for her birthday.

"He isn't forty. He's twenty-six," I reply, making an effort to not sound irritated. I test the coffee with the tip of my tongue. Too hot. "He doesn't look that old, right?" I ask, doubtfully.

Anna smiles slightly and sips her coffee. She likes it steaming hot. "No. I'm just teasing you," she says and I'm glad she's behaving so pleasantly considering what I've done. "I thought he was more like twenty-four when I saw him. Still too old for you," she adds.

I frown and blow on my coffee. "It's complicated," I say, then staring into my coffee, tell her the absolute truth, starting with Mick's and my break-up because I suppose that's where the story truly begins. I don't leave out any details. I relate my initial meeting with Wes, followed by all my lies. Anna watches me intently, not interrupting, simply sipping her coffee and watching, nodding and frowning every so often. I end with last night, the moment Anna caught me. "And that's everything," I finish, then take a long drink of coffee. It needs more sugar.

"So, Janet and I are the only ones who know," Anna says, frowning thoughtfully. She stands and refills her mug, looking back at me over her shoulder with that same thoughtful frown. When she sits again, she says, "I know you don't want to hear this, but I agree with Janet."

"That I've completely lost my mind?"

"No, just all sense of reason," Anna answers, matter-of-factly. "You're getting yourself into a real mess, Shannon. What are you going to say when he finds out? You've already been caught twice. Not everyone is going to turn and walk away like Janet and I. Imagine if _Kristy_ caught you." Anna gives me a long, silent look, letting that possibility sink in. "Think of how bad you felt when Mick dumped you and you learned about his other girlfriend. Wes is going to feel just as horrible, if not worse, when he finds out he's dating a seventeen year old."

I shift, uncomfortably. Why must Anna be so serious and reasonable and _right_? "I told you, it's complicated," I reply. "I've only lied about my age and attending Stoneybrook University." I push aside all the others lies built on those foundations. "Everything else is _me_, Anna. He likes _me_. I'm too mature for guys like Mick. Wes is a real adult, who I can relate to and be myself with...to a certain degree."

"Are you sleeping with him?" Anna asks, point blank.

"No!" I gasp, nearly dropping the mug. "We've only been dating a week! I dated Mick for six months and I wouldn't even let him take off my shirt. Remember?"

"Mick wasn't twenty-six years old."

I toss back my hair and narrow my eyes, slightly. "You and Janet have one-track minds. I'm glad you both think I'm going to suddenly turn into a whore. I didn't to keep Mick and I won't to keep Wes either."

"I didn't say you were a whore," Anna protests.

I slump back and fold my arms, looking away. I stare down at the tile, studying the beige and salmon swirls. I hear Anna tapping her foot against the chair leg, taking tiny sips of her coffee.

"You're mad because you know I'm right," she finally says, again in that matter-of-fact tone.

"Maybe you are."

"You know I am."

I look up from the tile and sit straight in my chair. I'm behaving like a petulant child. This is what I expect from Emily Michelle Brewer, not myself. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" I ask.

"Of course not. Your mess is your own."

I nod, slowly, pretending not to notice Anna's deepening frown. She hoped she'd talked some sense into me, that I'd abandon my lies for the truth. She doesn't understand. I don't even fully understand, understand why I can't stop.

We stay silent a few minutes, watching each other. Finally, I break into the quiet. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?" I ask, casually, attempting to not sound overeager or nosy.

Anna's disapproving frown disappears, replaced by the same unreadable expression she wore last night. She doesn't look at me, but rather over my shoulder, staring at something in the distance. Or maybe at nothing at all. I wonder if she's changed her mind like I feared and plans to keep her secret bottled up and tightly capped.

"Upstairs," she says, pushing away from the table and standing up.

I follow her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. But we don't make a left toward Anna and Abby's bedrooms. Instead, we make a right toward the master bedroom, Mrs. Stevenson's room. The door is cracked and Anna pushes through with me behind her. Unlike the rest of the house, Mrs. Stevenson's room looks lived-in, but in a way that it appears lived-in but forgotten. The bed is unmade, the gold and navy comforter spilling onto the tan carpeting in a tangle. Clothes are tossed over the back of the desk chair, blouses and panty hose, and long silk scarves. The blinds are cracked, so thin streams of light leak into the room, giving it an odd dim, shadowy look. I discreetly run a finger over the dresser as I pass. It's barely dusty. Anna leads me into the bathroom, which is almost as ridiculously large as my parents'. There are sinks on either side of the room. One is cluttered with cosmetics and perfume bottles, many tipped over on their sides. The other is covered with stacks of folded towels and washcloths.

Anna ducks into the walk-in closet and motions for me to follow. She flicks on the light and shuts the door. Mrs. Stevenson's closet is crammed full with clothes, the wooden bars sagging under their weight. Four metal shoe racks are filled haphazardly with pumps and sandals. Anna raises onto her toes and stretches upward, pulling a small floral-print box off the shelf. She lifts the lid and rummages through the contents. She takes out a small silver key, then pushes aside several floor-length dresses to reveal a small black safe. She crouches down, blocking my view. I hear the key turn in the lock and the door spring open, then Anna shuffling through papers. When she stands again and turns to me, she's holding a six-by-nine manila envelope.

"It took me two days to find the key to the safe," she tells me, lifting the flap of the envelope. "It doesn't matter what I was looking for. I found this instead." She hands me a folded white paper, then watches as I unfold it, again with that unreadable expression.

I stare down at the paper, not understanding, eyes flicking back and forth. It's a photocopy of a birth certificate. "Who's Baby Girl Stevenson?" I ask, confused. "You have another sister?"

"You didn't read everything," Anna says, flatly.

My eyes scan the rest of the paper. _Mother: Rachel Goldberg Stevenson. _Then my eyes settle to the right. I try to swallow the gasp coming up my throat, but fail. "Who is Michael Bergman?" I ask, lowering the paper to look at Anna.

"The father of my half-sister, apparently."

I glance back down at the paper, rereading every word. I don't know what to say. Questions rush my mind, clouding out all rational thought.

Anna points over the top of the paper. "Look at the date," she instructs. "Abby and I were three years old."

I open and close my mouth a few times, the only sound coming out a strangled gasp. "Anna...you didn't know about this? How could you not know?"

"I was only three. How would I remember?" Anna removes something else from the envelope. A tiny pink hospital bracelet with a number and _Stevenson - Girl_ typed across it. Anna takes out some more folded photocopies. "Letters from a lawyer," she explains. "Signed adoption papers. My mother had another man's baby and gave it away, then resumed her life with me and Abby and Dad."

I unfold one of the forms, an adoption form, signed by Mrs. Stevenson and Michael Bergman, whomever he may be. Anna takes the papers from my hand, folds them back into the envelope, neatly, with the hospital bracelet. I can't believe how matter-of-factly she's speaking, behaving, like she's showing me a recipe in a new cookbook, not a hidden truth that may shatter her life.

Anna closes the safe and returns the key to its hiding place. "I have something else to show you," she says, slipping by me, out of the closet.

My head is spinning as I follow Anna out of Mrs. Stevenson's bedroom and down the hall. What do I say? What does Anna expect me to say? _I'm sorry, Anna, that maybe your life has been a lie and you have a sister you didn't know about and maybe your mom is a tramp. Sorry, really I am_. So, I say nothing, following obediently.

Anna closes her bedroom door behind us and strides quickly to her bookcase. She pulls a teal-colored photo album off the bottom shelf and carries it over to the bed, where I'm sitting. Anna sits next to me, very close, so our legs and sides are touching like we're a single person, streaming into the next. Anna opens the album over our laps, flipping through the pages. Anna and Abby breeze passed on each page, little girls in matching outfits.

Anna stops at a page in the middle of the album. "Here," she says, pointing at a photo of herself and Abby at their second birthday party, wearing their cake on their faces and in their hair. "Our second birthday. Look at all these pictures," she says, turning several pages. "Then a few on Thanksgiving and at Hanukkah, then there's this huge gap. The photos just stop. There's a couple here, it looks like springtime, of us with our grandparents. No others. Then, look, August of that year, the photos begin again, slowly, sort of trickling in through the autumn." Anna turns each page carefully, pointing at the photos. "No photos of my parents. Not for a long time. There's one of my dad in the background. But look, January and February. My mother. Look at her!" Anna stabs angrily at a photo.

I stare down at it. There is Mrs. Stevenson standing between Abby and Anna outside her parents' house in the Hamptons. She doesn't seem to be looking at whoever's taking the photo, but staring beyond them, looking completely miserable. She's wearing a huge, thick gray pullover. In all the photos, enormous sweaters and bulky coats, perfect for concealing an unwanted pregnancy. The baby was born mid-March. No one would have suspected.

"Oh, Anna..." I say in a half-gasp, half-sigh. "Did you ask your mother about this?"

Anna shakes her head. "Of course not. And I didn't tell Abby. I _couldn't._ I don't even want to know. Abby wouldn't want to know either." Anna bites her lip and flips several more pages to the summer. Mrs. Stevenson's now dressed in shorts and t-shirts, smiling, at least with her mouth. There's something odd in her eyes. "You're the only one who knows. You and Adelaide. I found those papers in August before I left for school. I didn't intend to tell anyone ever, but you can't live in the same cramped room with someone and have them not notice something is wrong. Some secrets are impossible to keep," Anna says, touching a photo of her family. "But not for my mother," she says, bitterly.

"But Anna...if you haven't asked, you don't know the whole story. Maybe it's not what you think. Maybe...maybe...your mother wasn't a willing participant in..." I let my voice drop off. I can't say it, just like I can't suggest the word _rape._ I shudder. It's too terrible to think, even worse than the other possibility.

Anna shakes her head again.

"You can't be sure. You don't know who this Michael Bergman is."

"Yes, I do. He worked with my father. And he attended our synagogue." Anna's voice begins to strain and I fear it may collapse within her throat. "He worked in a different department, on a different floor. I remember I went to the office with my father once and saw him in the elevator. I said, 'Daddy, that man goes to B'nai Jacob too' and my father ignored me and walked by him without a word. I didn't remember that until I found those papers. I guess it stuck in the back of my mind because my father was never rude to anyone. He was friendly, even to strangers." Anna pauses for a moment staring down at her family photo. "He was married. He and his wife got a divorce. I remember that too. It was a few months after my father died and Gram Elsie came over and told my mom. Then she shooed me and Abby out of the room and closed the door. Gram Elsie _knows_, Shannon. She knows! And Shannon...what if...what if he divorced his wife because my father died? What if he wanted Mom back? Shannon, what if it never _ended_?" Anna's voice breaks and tears begin rolling down her cheeks. She buries her face in her hands and sobs, loud and wracking.

I put my arms around her, hold her tight, ignoring the photo album as it falls to the floor. I don't speak. I just hold Anna and allow her to cry out everything she's held in for so long.

When Anna finally lowers her hands and grabs a tissue from the nightstand, she says in a shaky, wavering voice, "And what if...Shannon, what if my father isn't really my father? What if Michael Bergman is? Or some other man that..." Anna doesn't finish before she begins crying again, shoulders quivering within my arms.

I reach down and pick up the album, pull it back onto my lap. "No, no, Anna," I tell her, soothingly. I flip through the album until I find a close, clear photo of Mr. Stevenson. He looks so cheerful and pleasant, a tall man with windblown brown hair and glasses. I wonder if when this photo was taken he knew, or at least suspected. "Anna, look at this picture. Look, this is your father. You have his eyes."

Anna stops crying long enough to look down at the photo and nod. Then she shoves the album off my lap. It falls onto the carpet, open, pictures facing down. Anna collapses sideways on the bed, rolls over so her face is buried in her pillow. I don't hear her sobs, but see the shaking of her body, shuddering, rising and falling. I sit sideways on the bed, rubbing her back, silently. There is nothing more I can say. Nothing I can do to make it better.


	13. Chapter 13

When Anna finishes crying, she sits up on the bed, her face red and puffy like her eyes. I hand her a tissue, still not sure what to say. I should speak words of comfort, but none come. This is so beyond anything I've ever known, beyond any problems with my own parents. I've often wondered about them, their faithfulness. I know they no longer love each other and spend all their time apart. I wonder if one cheated if the other would even care.

Anna blows her nose, then stands and slowly leaves the room. I follow behind her into the bathroom, where Anna stands at the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. I lower onto the toilet lid and watch Anna wet a washcloth and lather her face with a citrus-scented facial cleanser. She scrubs hard and furious at her skin, then splashes warm water on her face and wipes away the soap with the washcloth. Then Anna takes out a giant bottle of mint green mouthwash, gargles and spits.

"Feel better?" I ask as she wipes her mouth on a towel. I hope that's not insensitive. I don't know what else to say. I don't know how to fix this. I never thought there'd be anything I could not fix.

Anna nods. "Yes," she says, quietly, unzipping a red and yellow polka dot cosmetics bag. "Will you do my make-up? For the Creative Arts Faire?"

"Sure," I reply, jumping up and switching places with Anna. I spread Anna's cosmetics on the counter and select a light brown eyeshadow. "Close your eyes," I instruct.

Anna obeys, keeping her eyes shut while I spread the powder over her eyelids. "Shannon..." she begins when I give her permission to open her eyes again. "Why would my dad stay with Mom after what she did? How could he forgive her?"

"I don't know," I say, honestly, unscrewing the wand of her mascara tube. Anna needs to buy new mascara. Hers is getting thick and clumpy. I think I have a new tube at home. I'll give it to her tonight. "I guess they still loved each other."

"That shows Dad was a much better person than I. I will never forgive her," Anna tells me. "I can't believe she just gave the baby away. Like it was an unwanted kitten or puppy. I bet she never even thinks about it. She's probably forgotten she has another daughter out there in the world somewhere."

"I think it's very brave when women give up a baby. They want a better life for it because they love it so much," I reply, uncapping a lipstick. Too pink.

"My mother isn't brave. She's a coward," Anna says, bitterly. "A coward and a liar and a cheat."

I finally select the perfect lipstick, a soft rose pink. I glide it slowly onto her lips, as I think of Anna's father. He didn't want the baby either. If he did, wouldn't he have raised it as his own? Or maybe all the power in the decision lay with Mrs. Stevenson and the mysterious Michael Bergman. Maybe they simply did not wish for the inconvenience. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Anna will never know the truth as long as she remains silent.

"You should talk to your mom," I tell her, firmly, dusting blush onto her cheeks. "You can't keep this bottled up forever. She can tell you the truth and answer your questions."

"No," Anna says, hard and flat.

I watch her face a moment, considering what else I might say. No inspiration comes. Maybe it's not the time. Anna can brood on it awhile longer. I let the subject drop and die right there. "Have you decided what you're wearing tonight?" I ask, neatly putting away her cosmetics. I leave out the lipstick and face powder. She'll need them to touch up later.

"Yeah," she answers, admiring herself in the mirror. "Thanks, Shannon. I look nice. Come on, I'll show you what I picked out." Anna slips out of the bathroom and starts down the hallway. Downstairs, we hear the door to the garage swing open, banging against the wall. "Abby's home," Anna says, veering toward the stairs.

We're halfway down when Mrs. Stevenson appears in the foyer. She looks up at us and freezes, then drops her briefcase. It lands on the tile with a dull thud. "Anna!" Mrs. Stevenson exclaims. "What are you doing here?" she demands, her voice shaking with surprise.

Anna's frozen, too, in mid-step on a stair, arm resting on the banister. "What are _you _doing here?" she shoots back. "It's only three o' clock."

"I came home to attend the Creative Arts Faire with Abby. I promised her."

"Your promises don't mean much," Anna says, her voice resuming that hardness.

Mrs. Stevenson blinks up at Anna and despite all I know, I feel a bit sorry for her. "Anna, if I'd known you were coming home this weekend, I wouldn't have stayed at the office last night," she says.

Anna tightens her grip on the banister, staring down at her mother, hard. "Why? No one wants you here," she says, then turns and rushes back up the stairs.

Mrs. Stevenson's face goes slack, becoming unreadable like Anna's often does. I turn quickly away and run up the stairs after Anna. She's pacing her room, back and forth across the floor.

"Let's choose your outfit," I say, shutting the door, and crossing to the closet.

"I already chose my brown dress."

I slide open the closet door. A lot of Anna's clothes still hang there. "We'll find something better than that," I reply, pushing aside hangers draped with pants. It always helps me to feel put-together, at least on the outside. Clean and collected, despite what's happening inside, under the well-crafted façade. It will help Anna, too. At the back of the closet, I find a turquoise, white, and seafoam green plaid skirt. I remove it from its hanger, then thumb through the sweaters on the closet shelf. I pull out a turquoise cardigan, then buried beneath some t-shirts, a white spaghetti strap tank top. I lay them out on the bed, then set a pair of round-toe shoes with low heels on the carpet in front of the bed.

"That's too summery," Anna protests.

"I'll wear something summery, too," I reply, even though I've already set out my gray skirt and ivory sweater at home. "Get dressed."

"We're not leaving for another three hours," Anna points out.

"Oh."

"You don't have to stay with me," Anna says. "I'd like to take a nap, actually. Don't worry, I'll lay on my back, so I don't mess up my make-up."

I nod, slowly. "Okay. Yes, you should rest. I'll go home and work on my homework. Do you still want to ride with me? Or will you go with your mom?"

Anna frowns. "What do you think?" she replies.

"We're meeting at Kristy's at six," I tell her with another nod. I fold her clothes and move them to the chair. "I'll see you then." I slip out the door, closing it quietly behind me. I stand in the hallway, listening for Mrs. Stevenson. I lean over the staircase railing, but there's no sound from downstairs. I creep slowly down the hallway toward her bedroom. The door is shut. Anna and I left it open. I stop in front of the door, holding my breath, as if Mrs. Stevenson may hear it escaping in and out of my lungs. On the other side of the door, I hear muffled sobs. Part of me feels sorry for her. And part of me does not.

* * *

I wear something summery, as promised. I put away my plain gray skirt and ivory sweater and instead wear my violet silk floral-print dress, the one I wore the night I met Wes. I wear a white cardigan over it, but Tiffany still gives me an _Are you crazy?_ look when I come downstairs. She and Maria are both dressed in dark, autumn-ish clothes. Tiffany in a burnt-orange dress, showing far too much cleavage, and Maria in black pants and a black sweater. 

"You aren't supposed to wear white after Labor Day," Tiffany informs me. "Mrs. Jardin will dock you social points for that."

"Shut up, Tiffany," I snap. My stomach is fluttering with nervous butterflies. I don't need Tiffany's catty sarcasm at the moment.

The three of us get in my Explorer and drive across the street to Kristy's, parking in the driveway beside Janet's car. We walk into the house without knocking, knowing the usual amount of pandemonium that will be raging inside. The foyer is empty, but the house is far from silent. At the top of the staircase, Kristy and Anna are wrestling Emily Michelle into a pair of lacy white tights. Or at least attempting to. Emily Michelle's flailing, trying to claw at Anna's eyes. Elizabeth rushes passed then, up the stairs, scooping up Emily Michelle as she goes by. She isn't even dressed yet. I take one step into the living room and quickly double back. Rick Jones and Cokie Mason are on the couch, making out, in full view of all the Thomas-Brewers rushing passed. Maria's disappeared when I turn back into the foyer, replaced by Kristy and Anna, who is rubbing her shoulder where Emily Michelle must have slugged her.

"Do you know what's happening in your living room?" I ask Kristy.

Kristy scowls. "Yes! We're going to have to burn that couch. I'm never sitting on it again," she exclaims in disgust. "Her parents are having a cocktail party or something. I already locked my bedroom door. No way am I giving Cokie Mason the opportunity to do the nasty on my bed."

Watson comes down the stairs, dragging a screaming Emily Michelle by the hand. Honestly, you'd think she was three, not six. Nannie's behind him, carrying Amy. "Your mother's finally getting dressed," Watson tells Kristy. He's dressed in a gray suit with a gray and lilac tie. "Where's David Michael?"

"I saw him run into the game room with Maria. Sam's up there, too," Kristy answers.

Watson and Nannie turn around and walk back up the stairs. "We're leaving in five minutes," Watson calls out. "Everyone better be in the foyer and ready!"

"Why don't Sam and Janet just move in?" I ask Kristy. "They're always here."

Kristy rolls her eyes. "Please don't give them any ideas!" she cries. "They're here enough as it is. Can you blame Sam? When Janet's not riding him, her parents are. He has to get away sometimes. Then she follows him."

Yes, poor misunderstood Sam. I resist the urge to roll my eyes back at her. Instead, I turn to Anna. "Where's Abby?" I ask.

"Riding with Mom," Anna answers, dully.

"And where's Tiffany?" I ask, suddenly realizing she's disappeared too.

"Where's Charlie?" Kristy adds, spinning in a circle, like Charlie may be hiding behind her.

I sigh. "I'll check the kitchen. Anna, check upstairs. Kristy, have fun in the living room."

"_Thanks_," Kristy says to my retreating back.

Ignoring her, I stride swiftly toward the kitchen. And stop dead in my tracks, not venturing further than the doorway. I stand very still, staring, seeing something I know I'm not supposed to see.

Janet's leaning back against the doorway to the laundry room, hands behind her back. Charlie is leaning forward, an arm resting against the doorframe above her head. She's looking up and he's looking down, their faces very close. They're speaking very lowly, so I can't make out a word. Janet giggles and Charlie smiles at her. They aren't doing anything outright inappropriate, aren't even touching, but it gives me a strange turn in my stomach. The way they're leaning and looking at each other, something isn't right.

I whirl around, quickly, and walk away. Outside the formal dining room, where I can't be seen, I call out, "Charlie! Janet! Where are you?" then return to the foyer, swallowing hard on the lump forming in my throat.

Kristy and Anna are waiting in the foyer with Tiffany, Maria, and David Michael. Sam's just coming down the stairs, holding Amy rather limply in his arms. He passes her off to Anna as soon as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Then he sidles up to Tiffany and whispers in her ear. Kristy's too busy tickling Amy to notice. I step in between Sam and Tiffany, elbowing Sam hard in the stomach. Whatever weirdness is going on in his and Janet's marriage needs to be kept to consenting adults.

"Where's Charlie?" Kristy asks me.

"He's coming," I reply. "Do you have your costume?"

Kristy points to a garment bag draped over the banister. "Hey, let's go!" she shouts up the stairs.

Watson, Elizabeth, Nannie, and Emily Michelle appear at the top of the stairs. Elizabeth looks frazzled. From the other side of the house, Charlie and Janet come strolling out of the kitchen, completely casual and unruffled, like they haven't been up to anything. I narrow my eyes at Janet, who rolls hers at me, obviously assuming I'm still upset about last night.

Janet takes Amy from Anna. "Charlie and I are going in my car to drop Amy off at Leslie's. She said she'd watch Amy for a couple hours."

Kristy snorts. "Make sure she doesn't let Amy out in the street without a coat and hat."

Janet glares at her. "I suppose I'd worry about that if we were still in eighth grade," she snaps.

Elizabeth rubs her temples. "Cut it out! Both of you. God, I'm not listening to any childish bickering tonight."

"Yeah, Janet," Sam says, sassily, making me want to punch him in the face. "I'm riding with Mom."

"You ride with your mom," Janet replies.

"Enough!" Elizabeth shouts.

Two minutes later, Anna, Kristy, Tiffany, Maria, and I are sitting in my car. Beside us, I watch Charlie strap Amy into her car seat while Janet starts the car. I throw my car into reverse and back down the drive. I wait at the curb for Watson to back the Suburban out of the garage, then follow behind him toward Stoneybrook Day. We have to park on the street because the parking lot is already packed. Kristy takes my hand as we walk toward the auditorium, obviously feeling the same nervous fluttering that I do.

"I didn't think so many people would come," she tells me.

"You won't even notice when you're on stage. You'll get in the zone and tune everyone out," Anna assures her. "And since when do you have stage fright?"

"I don't have stage fright. I'm worried about everyone laughing at our play."

"Thanks a lot," I snap.

"Should we wait outside for Mom and Dad?" Maria asks.

"Why? They aren't coming," Tiffany replies, then rushes up the auditorium steps to where Tyler Austen waits for her. She throws her arms around his neck and promptly begins sucking his face off. I'm torn between horror and smug satisfaction. The latter wins out. I look over my shoulder and smirk at the stunned expression on Sam Thomas's face.

"Food!" David Michael shouts the moment we walk through the auditorium doors.

Maria shoves her small duffel bag into my arms. "Here, Shanny, hold my shoes and costume!" she orders then races after David Michael toward the buffet. Several of her friends are already over there. She immediately begins introducing David Michael to all of them. I think I may hear the words "my boyfriend" but I hope I'm mistaken.

Kristy, Anna, and I begin searching the crowd for Abby, even though Kristy swears she's starving and must eat. Anna and I promise we'll eat as soon as we find Abby. We link arms and push through the sea of people. Most aren't really here for the Creative Arts Faire. That is, they don't really care about what we've all accomplished. Instead, this is a prime social event, full of networking possibilities, along with the opportunity to brag and show off, yourself and your family. The first people we run into are the Jardins. Meg in her floor-length black skirt, white blouse, and pearls, hair piled on top of her head, wearing a strained, plastic smile. Mrs. Jardin's draped in diamonds, wearing a dress with a full skirt. Meg's fourteen year old brother, Penn, is dressed in a suit and tie, standing very stiffly with his usual arrogant expression. Mr. Jardin is nowhere in sight. I have a sinking feeling he's still at the Greenvale Country Club with Dad, drinking bourbon and harassing the waitresses.

Next we meet the Duprees. Lindsey's standing between her grandparents dressed exactly like Meg, only she's not hiding her misery. At least the Drs. Dupree are dressed like normal people. Dr. Dupree in a black pantsuit and chunky, bright-colored jewelry and Mister Dr. Dupree in a brown sports coat with no tie.

"I'm not allowed to eat," Lindsey says, furiously, without greeting us. "Mrs. Jardin promised to throttle me if I spill anything on my outfit."

"If you're hungry, eat," Dr. Dupree says. She's holding a plate of half-eaten food. Stuffed mushrooms, pâté, and a scoop of tuna salad on a lettuce leaf.

Kristy's eyes widen. "_That's_ what they're serving?" she demands in disgust. "Gross!"

"It looks good when you're famished," Lindsey snaps, making her sour lemon face.

"I told you to eat before we left," Mister Dr. Dupree tells her. That's what everyone calls him. He seems to like it. "But if you want to eat, I'll act as a human shield between you and Paula Jardin."

Lindsey grunts. "No, thanks. My money's on Mrs. Jardin. I had to spend _all_ last night and _all _today with that woman. If you ever go out of town again and make me stay with her, I swear, I'll smother you both in your sleep."

Mister Dr. Dupree laughs, but Dr. Dupree looks slightly disturbed.

Kristy, Anna, and I excuse ourselves and continue our search for Abby. Instead, we find Greer and her family. Greer's already in costume - high-waisted beige slacks and a delicate white silk blouse and brown heels with long, pointy toes. If she spills anything on herself, I'll kill her. Greer's straightened her usually curly auburn hair and it falls in loose waves around her shoulders. She's also already in character, one hand on her hip, sway-backed. She's laughing loud and breathlessly. Several heads are turned toward her, watching in admiration. Her brother is on her left. His name is Bertram, but when he was twelve he nicknamed himself Beer because it rhymes with Greer. He's a senior at Yale, studying Journalism. On Greer's other side, to my displeasure is Sally White, looking at Greer in that cool, bored way of hers. I'm surprised that amidst all the diamonds and glitter Sally's in tight dark blue jeans and her black stilettos. She's also wearing a black and white-striped off-the-shoulder sweater I recognize as Greer's. And she isn't wearing a bra. It's quite obvious.

"I didn't know we could wear jeans," Kristy whispers, angrily.

Before we can veer in another direction, Greer spots us and waves. "There's my daughter now!" she shrieks, flagging us down.

Reluctantly, we walk over to them. After hellos are exchanged, Mr. and Mrs. Carson leave to find more interesting people. Beer hangs around though, which is odd because he's been avoiding Greer and I since we were four years old. Then he gazes sort of wistfully at Sally and I understand. Sally's angled her body away from him, obviously uninterested.

Sally nudges me in the shoulder. "Are those Lindsey's grandparents?" she asks, gesturing toward the Duprees with her punch.

"Yes, and as you can see, they aren't old," I reply, testily.

Sally takes a long sip of her punch. "Yeah, but they dress like old people," she says.

I huff and turn away from her, but she nudges me again.

"What?"

This time Sally gestures across the room toward the Jardins. "That Mrs. Jardin has been telling everyone all about how your boyfriend dumped you." Sally takes another sip of her punch, allowing the horror to sink in. Her lips are stained bright red. "Your pal Meg just stood there and let her mother tell the whole world your business."

"So?" I ask, like I absolutely don't care.

"So, I think you should go over to Mrs. Jardin and pour the punch bowl over her head. That'd give her a new story to tell about you. And at least in that one you'd be _doing_ something."

I fix her with a steely glare. "Why are you talking to me?"

Sally shrugs. "I thought you'd like to know. I mean, when an entire room's mocking me, I like to know." Sally takes another sip of punch and shrugs again. "You have really weak friends. Meg and that weird Lindsey girl. I think you like that about them."

I narrow my eyes. "You follow my friends and I around for two weeks and think you know us? Well, you don't know anything." I whirl around, hooking arms with Kristy and Anna, forcibly removing them from their conversation with Greer.

We finally find Abby standing near the entrance with Mrs. Stevenson and the Thomas-Brewers. Abby's wearing the brown dress Anna had intended to wear tonight. Her hair's more out-of-control than usual. I realize it does sort of resemble an electrocuted mop like Sally White suggested.

"Who is that blonde girl you were talking to?" Mrs. Stevenson asks us, although the question appears to be more directed at Anna than at Kristy or me.

Anna moves closer to me, slipping an arm around my waist and turning her head to stare at the buffet. Mrs. Stevenson's question hangs in the air in the center of us all, unanswered and lingering. I look at Mrs. Stevenson in her tan business suit and all I see is _adulteress_ stamped over her face, like she's some modern-day Hester Prynne. "Sally White," I answer, filling the awkward silence. "She just moved here from Santa Fe. She lived in Rome before that. Her mother's some kind of movie star."

The adults look slightly impressed. Apparently, Kristy hasn't shared that particular piece of information with her family.

"Who is her mother?" Nannie asks.

I pause to think. Sally has said her name a couple times. "Lisanne Faulkner?" I say, not sure if that's correct.

Mrs. Stevenson laughs, loudly. "Lisanne Faulkner? She's not a movie star!"

Kristy gives me a pointed look. "Figures," she says.

"She told you her mother's a movie star?" Mrs. Stevenson asks, still laughing. She looks over at Elizabeth. "Do you remember Lisanne Faulkner? From about twenty years ago? She was on the cover of all those entertainment magazines?"

Elizabeth shakes her head. "I never paid much attention to that stuff."

Mrs. Stevenson turns back to us. "Your friend's mother was nothing more than a movie extra. She had one line in the movie _Tahitian Orchid_ and then ran off with one of the producers. He was married to a rock star, who was pregnant at the time. She miscarried, he divorced her, and married Lisanne Faulkner. It was a huge scandal back then."

"Too bad Sally's mom isn't here tonight," Anna comments, finally looking away from the buffet. "You two would be great friends."

The smile drops from Mrs. Stevenson, replaced with a perplexed expression. In fact, everyone looks confused. Everyone except Anna and I.

Before another word is said, the auditorium doors open and people begin filing inside. Kristy and Abby run off to find Greer before going backstage. I decided earlier to watch the performance from the audience. Anna needs me more than I am needed backstage. I point out Tiffany's pressed flower collage when we pass. It's hanging on the wall by the auditorium entrance.

Janet sidles up to me as we're walking down the ramp to the lower part of the auditorium. "Your sister's out front practically having sex in a planter," she informs me.

"Who are you to judge?" I snap, although it's difficult to resist turning around and storming outside. What is Tiffany thinking? She's dated this boy for a _week._

"I just thought you'd like to know."

I make a point to not sit beside Janet. Instead, I sit between Anna and Charlie with Janet on his other side. Mrs. Stevenson sits down next to Anna, causing Anna to stiffen and scoot closer to me. I'm not sure what she thinks will happen if they touch. It's not like lies or compromised morals are contagious.

I lean over Anna. "Mrs. Stevenson, make sure you save those two end seats for my parents," I tell her.

"Look, Shannon, your play got half a page in the program," Anna says, pushing me away from her mother and showing me the program. "_The Broken Hour-Glass_ - written and directed by Shannon Louisa Kilbourne." Anna laughs. "Daughter played by Kristin Amanda Thomas. Did you put that in? Kristy's going to kill you!"

"Well, it's her name," I reply.

"And here's Meg and Lindsey's flute duet. Hans Kohler, good pick," Anna says, thumbing through the program. "And here's that odd Sally girl. The one whose mother is _not _a movie star."

I lean over and look at where she's pointing. I wasn't aware Sally was performing. She's only been at SDS for two weeks. Dr. Patek surely would have excused her from the Creative Arts Faire. "What's she doing? Flinging insults at the audience?" I ask, scanning Sally's listing. But no, she's playing the piano. "An original song composed by Sally White?" I read aloud. Yeah right.

The lights begin to lower and Dr. Patek steps onto the stage. She's wearing a long black velvet dress. She removes the microphone from the stand, but I miss what she says because Tiffany and Tyler come in, sneaking down the aisle, and flop into the seats beside Mrs. Stevenson.

"Those seats are for Mom and Dad," I hiss, leaning over Anna and her mother.

Tiffany scowls. "They aren't coming," she snaps and turns toward Tyler, messing with his tie.

I sit back, frowning, as the performances begin. All the younger kids go first and their performances are...unusual. Half an hour into the show, Maria and two of her friends perform their tap dance. Mariatook five tap lessons when she was eight. She wasn't very good.She's wearing my old shoes and one of my old costumes. Her friend, who is practically a professional tap dancer (at least according to her mother) choreographed the dance herself. It's interesting. But I think it's best that Maria's interest lies in swimming, math, and entomology and not dance. Meg and Lindsey perform not long after Maria. Their duet is almost flawless, save for a couple missed notes by Meg. I remind myself to lie about them not looking ridiculous in those outfits. Sally is on right after them. Dr. Patek announces her piece as an original called 'Summer Awakening'. The curtain rises and Sally's seated at the piano, wearing the exact same outfit she wore earlier, jeans and Greer's striped sweater. Only now she's wearing her mirrored sunglasses too.

Tiffany leans across Mrs. Stevenson and Anna. "Does she think she's Stevie frickin' Wonder?" Tiffany asks.

I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Although a short snort escapes. Sally's piece sounds nothing like something called 'Summer Awakening'. It sounds more like a funeral march. To my dismay, Anna appears quite impressed. She actually leaps to her feet when Sally finishes and applauds, enthusiastically. Inwardly, I groan.

My play is the second to last performance. The nervous fluttering returns to my stomach as Dr. Patek announces the name of the play and all our names. I glance behind me toward the auditorium doors. Maybe my parents slipped in and decided to stay in the back instead of hunting me down. Even as I search, I know the truth. They aren't here. Tonight wasn't important enough for them to come.

I turn back around and sit very straight in my seat, hands folded tightly in my lap. Anna squeezes my knee, excitedly and I manage to return a small smile. Then the play begins. Greer and Karl are amazing. Their voices project loud and clear, filling the auditorium. All the sound effects are right on cue. On the sofa, Kristy remains still and stoic, not once cracking a smile, like I secretly feared she would. She's wearing her yellow bridesmaid dress from Elizabeth and Watson's wedding. We argued over that, but she looks fantastic. The end comes and Kristy jumps off the sofa and flings the hour-glass to the ground. Backstage, Abby plays the recording. It really sounds like the hour-glass is breaking right there on stage.

I'm beaming as Greer, Karl, and Kristy take their bows. Abby pokes her head out from behind the curtain and waves. The Stevensons and Thomas-Brewers all lean over to me, grinning and offering congratulations. Charlie punches me in the shoulder and even though I don't currently know my feelings toward him, it's a nice, brotherly gesture. No one mentions that my parents did not come.

When the performances are complete and everyone's taken their final bows, our group files out of the auditorium and waits together in the lobby for Kristy, Abby, and Maria. Mrs. Jardin and Penn come by and congratulate me and Mrs. Jardin praises Kristy and Abby while pointing out to everyone that Meg made three mistakes during her duet and did anyone notice. There's an awkward silence and Mrs. Jardin breezes on. The Carsons also offer their congratulations, pausing in their search for Greer, as do Mr. and Mrs. Taylor and Polly Harper. I swell with pride each time someone smiles and shakes my hand. When Lindsey and her grandparents come up to us, her grandfather jokingly asks me to sign his program and I oblige. Then we all start passing around our programs, laughing and signing for each other.

Out of nowhere, Sally White appears beside me. "Interesting play," she says to me, like she hasn't plagued our practices, snapping her gum in my ear and making snide comments. "I'm wondering if Kristin Amanda Thomas would please sign my program?" she asks, voice full of fake sweetness. She holds her program out to Kristy, who glares at her, but takes the program. She signs _Kristy Thomas_ in very large, loopy cursive across the front of the program. Sally makes a big show of admiring the signature and tucking the program safely away in her purse. Sally White is more than a super creep. She's a super freak, too.

"I thought your piece was lovely," Anna tells Sally. "You're very good."

"I know," Sally replies without an ounce of modesty. "The piece is about losing my virginity on the Italian Riviera last summer," Sally informs us. Anna's jaw drops, but I don't give Sally the satisfaction of shocking me. I am thankful, however, that the adults aren't listening. Sally continues, "I titled it after the play _Spring Awakening._ Have you read or seen it?"

"Yes," I answer. "I wasn't aware you were a fourteen year old girl who died during a botched abortion."

"I didn't say it was inspired by the play," Sally says, her voice losing its coolness. "Just the title."

Tiffany, Maria, and I leave a few minutes later. Elizabeth invites us out for dessert with them, but I'm not in the mood. The day has been an emotional roller coaster and when I come crashing down, I want it to be at home. I'm tired. I want to sleep.

When we're crossing through the parking lot, Tiffany loops her arm through mine. "They wouldn't have understood your play anyway," she tells me.

"There was nothing to understand about it," I reply. "It was just a play."

"Okay. It was just a play. But they wouldn't have gotten it."

"Thanks."

The house is dark when we pull into the garage. No parents with apologies,. No flowers and kisses of congratulations. Just a dark, empty house. My high from the performance wears off as quick as I step through the door into the house. Cold, dark, and empty. I shouldn't expect anything more. What's wrong with me that I do, even if it's a tiny foolishly hopeful piece of myself. _At least your mother came, _I should have told Anna. That is something more than nothing.

On the table in the foyer, there's a large piece of hot pink construction paper held down with a sweating glass of ice water. It isn't on a coaster. The table will be ruined. I slide the paper out from under the glass. A note from Mom. It's not an apology.

Shanny,

Pick up my dry-cleaning tomorrow by five.

A monster rises inside me, fiery hot and boiling, rises from the dark hidden place I bury my secret thoughts and feelings. My hand tightens around the note, crumpling it in my grip. I pick up the glass and hurl it across the room. It shatters against the wall, breaking and falling in a thousand splintered pieces.


	14. Chapter 14

When Tiffany and I pull into the garage on Friday afternoon, we're surprised to see Mom's car. Mom's rarely home before midnight on weekend nights. She shows houses late, then goes out with co-workers or clients. Mrs. Bryar's car isn't parked at the curb. I didn't leave her a check. I hope Mom paid her.

"Did someone die?" Tiffany asks, peevishly, when we enter the kitchen.

Mom's leaning against the counter, flipping through a cookbook. My heart does a slight leap. Is Mom going to _cook_ something? For the first time in three years? "No one died," Mom replies, crossly, shutting the cookbook. She straightens and tugs on her lavender blouse, which is extremely low-cut. That kind of exposure ought to be illegal. "Your father and I are having a dinner party tomorrow night. I told you about it."

Tiffany and I exchange a look. "No, you didn't," I say, speaking to my mother for the first time since Saturday. I decided to give my parents the silent treatment until they apologize for missing the Creative Arts Faire. So far, they haven't noticed.

"Of course, I did," Mom snaps. "I just finalized the menu with Mrs. Bryar. She's certainly gotten uppity these days. Here's a shopping list, Shanny. You'll have to go to the A&P in the morning. Mrs. Bryar will be here at one o' clock to begin preparing dinner. Make sure you're back by then." Mom flicks a folded sheet of paper at me and instinctively, I reach out and catch it. I study the list closely, knowing I should rip it up and throw the pieces in Mom's face. But if I don't do the shopping, Mrs. Bryar will have to. I'd only be punishing her, not Mom.

"What time is this dinner?" Tiffany demands with a scowl. "I work until four."

"The guests will arrive at five. Please be home before then. I don't want anyone seeing you in that tacky uniform," Mom says with a disdainful look. "Now, your father has invited the Jardins, of course. Then the Browns are coming and the Kerners and a couple of my co-workers." Mom laughs, breezily. "Oh, you'll just love Raymond, our office comedian. And Julian is an absolute doll."

"Can I invite Tyler?" Tiffany asks.

Mom waves at her, dismissively. "I don't care. Just don't embarrass me."

"I have plans already," I tell Mom. It's true. As of today, Wes and I have been dating for two weeks. He can't take me out tonight because his parents are flying in from Miami and he has to drive all the way to La Guardia to pick them up. But tomorrow night, I'm going to his apartment for the first time. He's making me dinner.

It's my turn to receive a dismissive wave. "Change them," she commands.

"I can't."

Mom stares at me, hard. "You _can_ and you _will_."

Maria runs in then, a duffel bag thrown over one shoulder and a sleeping bag over the other. "Did you buy the chocolate and marshmallows, Shanny?" she asks. Tonight, the entomology club's having a campout. Normally, I'd object considering it's late-October and much too cold for camping. But the campout's in a tent in some kid's backyard and there's a portable heater.

"Of course. They're in the pantry in a plastic shopping bag. I bought them yesterday," I tell her. "Mom? Can you drop Maria off at Luke's?"

Mom sighs, heavily. "I suppose. Although, it'll probably make me late for my appointment." Another heavy sigh, but I don't retract my request. "Let me change my shoes." Mom disappears out of the kitchen.

As soon as she's gone, Tiffany and I turn on Maria. "Did you know about this dinner party?" I demand.

"No! She insisted she told me. She insisted she told Mrs. Bryar, too. They got into an argument about it. Then Mom asked if Mrs. Bryar would _serve_ at the party."

My mouth gapes. Mom has some nerve! "What did Mrs. Bryar say?"

"She said she's not a waitress. She said she's not a cook either, but eventually agreed to do that. She looked pissed though."

"Don't say 'pissed'. It's vulgar," I scold, but inside my stomach turns with worry. What if Mrs. Bryar quits? She and Mom have argued several times before. If she finally gets fed up and leave, what will I do?

"Mom's such a raging bitch," Tiffany says, nastily, hopping onto the counter.

I know Tiffany has more to say, but we're distracted by someone screaming out on the front lawn. I mean, _screaming_ at the top of their lungs. Tiffany, Maria, and I rush into the foyer and throw open the front door. To our disappointment and displeasure, it's only Greer, down on her knees on the sidewalk, hands raised to the sky, bellowing for Kristy and Abby. Sally White's standing behind her and Meg's just pulled up at the curb behind Greer's Miata.

"What the hell is going on?" Mom shrieks from behind us. "Greer Carson! Knock it off!" Mom yells a few other choice words that I won't repeat.

How Greer hears Mom over her own screeching, I don't know. But Greer stops screaming and rises from the sidewalk, dusting off her knees. She's still in uniform, just like Meg and Sally. Greer strolls up the walk toward us. "I want Kristy and Abby to come over," she explains.

"We have a telephone," Mom snaps. "Get your stuff, Maria. You're making me late."

"Mrs. Kilbourne, this is Sally White," Greer tells Mom, who ignores her, pushing passed, barreling toward the garage with Maria trotting behind her.

"Friendly," Sally comments.

I glare at her, then turn to Greer. "What are you doing here?" I ask, which I realize is a bit rude. But Greer knows our routine. We do homework right after school, then are free in the evenings. I haven't even seen Tiffany's progress report yet.

"Hanging out," Greer replies, shoving passed me into the house. "Let's call Kristy and Abby. We attempted to kidnap Lindsey, but her grandfather was home."

Sally wags a finger in my face. "No, no, no. She's being punished," Sally mimics, although I seriously doubt Mister Dr. Dupree shook a finger in anyone's face. "I think they have her chained in the basement."

In the kitchen, Greer's already on the phone with Abby, sitting on the counter, gabbing away. Meg walks right to the pantry and opens the door. "Do you have any cookies?" she asks.

"This isn't the A&P," Tiffany says, irritably.

Meg's already opened a new box of Double Stuf Oreos and crammed two in her mouth. "Mmuh mah wuh mu meah," she says and no one understands, but it probably has something to do with her mother.

"Thank you, I _would_ like a glass of water," Sally announces, opening a cabinet. It's filled with bowls. She tries the next one.

"Get out of our cabinets," Tiffany snaps.

"Why is everyone descending upon my house?" I exclaim.

Greer takes an Oreo from Meg. "All our parents are home," she answers through a mouthful of cookie. The front door creaks open. "There's Kristy and Abby! Let's order pizza. Kristy, what's the number to Pizza Express?"

"KL5-2242," Kristy recites, automatically, walking into the kitchen with Abby behind her. When Kristy sees Sally, she wrinkles her nose at me, like it's my fault Sally's here.

"Just order me a salad and breadsticks," Abby says, taking a handful of Oreos from Meg. She's allergic to milk and tomatoes, so pizza's out for her.

The pizza negotiations begin between Greer, Kristy, and Tiffany, although I don't recall giving permission for anyone to eat pizza at my house. Meg and Sally appear disinterested in the discussion. Meg probably because she has a four o' clock curfew or something ridiculous like that and won't be here for the pizza delivery. Sally, who has found a glass and filled it with water from the cooler, is busy opening all the drawers and cabinets, checking out all our stuff. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect she's casing the place. Greer, Kristy, and Tiffany finally settle on pepperoni with half olive and half onion.

"Tell them to put a rush on it," Kristy instructs when Greer gets on the phone. "I'm sitting for Sari Papadakis in an hour."

Sally finishes her search of my kitchen and sits down at the table with Abby. "What a fabulous way to spend your Friday night, Kat," she says.

Kristy scowls. "I happen to enjoy - wait, what did you call me?"

"Kat. Your name is Kristin Amanda Thomas. That's KAT. It's a much better name than _Kristy._"

"I like Kristy."

"Would you prefer I call you 'Kristin'?"

"I'd prefer you didn't call me anything."

Sally raises an eyebrow at Kristy and takes an Oreo from the open package. There are only six left. Sally twists the Oreo apart, perfectly, so all the creme is on one side, unbroken.

"You can't just go around changing people's names," I inform her, hotly, shooting a narrowed look at Greer, who's leaning casually against the center island, completely unbothered.

"Sure can, Starshine. See, I just did it again." Sally licks the Oreo creme, then begins scraping it off with her teeth.

Great. Now I'm going to spend senior year being called Starshine by Sally White. Kristy has nothing to complain about now. Kat is twenty times better than _Starshine_. If I don't react, she'll drop it. That's all Sally is after, a reaction. I turn away and walk through the laundry room into the garage. Everyone will want root beer with their pizza. I open the garage cabinet where we keep boxes of soda and begin stacking my arms with cans of root beer. I kick the cabinet door closed, pretending it's Sally White's face.

"See, your implants are much more proportionate to your frame," Sally is saying to Meg when I walk back into the kitchen.

Meg touches her breasts, self-consciously. "You can tell they're implants?"

Sally nods. "I didn't say anything before because I didn't want to be rude."

Kristy and I snort at the same time.

Tiffany looks at me from where she's sitting cross-legged on the counter. "Sally was just commenting on Mom's breast implants," she tells me.

I almost spit out the warm root beer I've just taken a sip of. "What?" I cry when I've managed to swallow.

"It's really obvious, Starshine. Haven't you told your mother that?" Sally asks. "My mother had her implants removed years ago. They leaked and gave her breast cancer."

Abby looks across the table, sympathetically. Her grandma was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years ago and had a double mastectomy.

Meg's jaw drops. "They can give you _cancer_?" she shrieks, absolutely horrified, clutching her breasts.

"The silicone ones. Yours are probably saline."

That doesn't quell Meg's newfound fear. "My mother is such a cow! She didn't say anything about cancer! I have to go home!" Meg grabs her purse off the counter and tears out of the room. The front door slams behind her.

Tiffany rolls her eyes. "Meg Jardin is dumber than a box of hair."

Kristy isn't amused. "Now you've totally freaked Meg out!" she exclaims.

Sally shrugs. "She needed to know."

Just as Kristy and Sally launch into an argument, I hear my phone ring upstairs. I don't even excuse myself. I just run out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind me, drifting in from the kitchen, I hear Greer and Abby join the argument. I hope they're done by the time I return.

I drop into my desk chair and pick up the receiver. "Hello?" I say, breathlessly.

"Shannon?"

"Wes?"

We laugh.

"Hi," Wes says. "I'm about to leave for the airport. I don't think my parents could have possibly chosen a more inconvenient airport to fly into. Before I left I just wanted to make sure we're still on for tomorrow night."

"Of course," I tell him. Mom can have her dinner party without me. Nothing I do is important to her. "I'm looking forward to seeing your apartment."

"I guess I should clean then," he says with a laugh. "Do you have the directions?"

"Yes. It's on Birch Street. It'll be easy to find."

"You should be able to find my unit. It's right by the parking lot," Wes says. "Hey, do you want to watch a movie after dinner? I could run to Mega Video tomorrow."

"Sure! Have you ever heard of _Tahitian Orchid_?" I ask. Ever since Mrs. Stevenson told us about Sally's mother's claim to fame, I've been dying to see her movie. Kristy and Abby have zero interest in it though. When I was at the Stoneybrook Public Library on Tuesday, I looked Sally's mother up in an old entertainment magazine, so I can recognize her.

"Yes," Wes says.

"Have you seen it?"

There's a short pause. "Uh...yes."

"Would you want to see it again? I'd like to see it and my friends won't watch it with me."

"Uh, sure. We can watch it, if you want."

Wes and I chat a couple minutes more, then hang up. I check my reflection in the mirror and run a brush through my hair, smiling. I am so lucky. When I go back downstairs, the pizza has arrived. Everyone's crowded around the table already. No one's arguing. I slide into the last remaining chair and lift a slice of pepperoni and onion out of the box.

"What have you guys been talking about?" I ask, taking a small bite of my slice.

"You don't want to know," Kristy says, then crams the rest of her slice in her mouth. She chews very quickly. Either because she's in a hurry to get to her sitting job or because she wants to escape my house.

Abby tears a breadstick in half and sets one piece on my plate. "Greer has been regaling us with stories of her sexual escapades again," she tells me, dully.

I swallow quickly. "In front of my little sister?" I demand, gesturing across the table at Tiffany.

Tiffany gives me a pointed look. "I have heard these stories a million times like everyone else."

"You have not," Greer protests, narrowing her eyes, slightly. I wish Greer wasn't like this. She doesn't have to brag and show off for us. And she certainly doesn't need to show off for Sally White. Greer wants Sally to know she's our Queen Bee, our alpha dog. But bending over backwards to prove it isn't having the desired effect. "I lost my virginity two summers ago at Camp Erie. He was our tennis instructor. I was the first to have sex. I beat Lindsey by a day and a half," Greer says, importantly.

Sally scoffs. "Lindsey has had sex?" she asks.

"Yes, but not at Camp Erie. Her grandparents send her to some church camp in Maine."

Sally laughs. "Sex at a church camp? Yeah right."

"All right. That's it for me!" Kristy announces, jumping out of her seat. There's a half-eaten slice of pizza in her hand. "Have fun continuing this conversation in my absence. As if the topic has not been discussed to death already. Goodbye!" Kristy waves and disappears out of the kitchen.

Greer sighs. "Kristy can be such a child," she says.

"Hey, I don't want to hear about this again either," Abby says, taking a swig of her root beer.

Greer ignores her and focuses on Sally. "I've slept with five guys. How many have you been with?"

"Only the guy on the Italian Riviera," Sally replies. She takes a bite of her pizza. She doesn't seem interested in Greer's topic of choice.

Greer looks disappointed. "Oh." She pushes the uneaten crusts around on her plate. "Shannon's still a virgin," she says.

"Greer!" I exclaim, dropping my pizza.

"I thought you were proud of it!"

"But you don't need to tell everyone!"

"Who's everyone? It's just us. Abby and Tiffany already knew. If you weren't so squeamish about discussing the subject then - " Greer stops and folds her arms. "Never mind."

"Then what?" I demand, although I already know. We've had this conversation a million times in a million different ways.

Greer looks at me and sighs. "If you weren't such a prude, Shannon, Mick wouldn't have dumped you. Especially not in such a horrible fashion."

I set down my slice of pizza, insides growing hot. What is wrong with Greer? Where has my best friend gone? I stare at her, harder and harder, trying to see the old Greer. My Greer.

Abby blows up. "Greer Carson! That's a nasty thing to say to Shannon! If she has to sleep with some jerk to keep him around, then he isn't worth her time. Shannon has morals, unlike _some_ people. You're lucky Kristy isn't here!"

Sally leans back in her chair. "Yeah, Kat would rip you apart for being a sexist douche."

Greer frowns, trying to figure out if Sally's actually saying she _is_ a sexist douche.

"Where are all the boys you've slept with, Greer?" Tiffany asks, snidely. She stands up and grabs my arm. "Come on, Shanny. Let's go upstairs, so Greer can leave."

Greer sits silently for a moment, watching us. "I'm sorry, Shannon," she finally says, but I'm not sure she means it.


	15. Chapter 15

Mom isn't pleased when she sees me Saturday evening.

"What are you wearing?" she demands, her voice rising shrilly.

I glance down at myself. I'm wearing black linen pants and heels with a scoop-necked teal sweater. "A nice outfit," I reply, simply.

Mom's left eye twitches. "Our guests will be here in fifteen minutes! Paula Jardin cannot see you in _trousers_ like some tomboy!"

I stare at Mom. It seems so very, very long ago that she was a good mother. "I told you yesterday, I have plans."

"Plans? Plans more important than my dinner party?"

"Yes."

Mom stares hard at me, nostrils flaring. Her eye continues twitching. "I absolutely forbid you to leave this house," she says, tightly.

"Stop me," I challenge, then start down the stairs.

Mom follows behind me, breathing down my neck. "Ted! Ted!" she shrieks when Dad comes into view. He's in the foyer, swinging his new driver, which he's been dying to show off to Mr. Jardin and Mr. Brown. "Ted! Look at your daughter!" Mom yells.

Dad glances up. He grins. "You look lovely, sweetheart," he tells me, then lowers his head and takes another swing.

Mom loses it. She's ranting and raving as I duck into the kitchen where Mrs. Bryar's cleaning up.

"I see your mother's looking forward to her party," she says, dryly.

I lean on my elbows on the center island, watching Mrs. Bryar wipe down the tile. "She's upset over my outfit," I explain.

Mrs. Bryar glances up, looking at me over her glasses. "I think you look very nice, Shannon," she says.

"Thank you. But I'm not staying for the dinner party. Well, I'll stay a little while. I have to be somewhere at six," I tell her. "I have a date. He's making me dinner at his apartment, then we're watching _Tahitian Orchid._"

Mrs. Bryar glances up at me again. "You're going to some boy's apartment to watch _Tahitian Orchid_?" she asks.

"Yes. Have you seen it?"

Mrs. Bryar looks a bit embarrassed. "Well, yes. But _everyone_ saw it back then. It was quite the scandalous movie." She rinses out the dish rag. There's a slight flush to her cheeks. "I wanted to walk out, but my husband wouldn't leave. It was _his_ kind of movie," she says, disapprovingly. Mrs. Bryar is divorced. "How well do you know this boy?" she asks, sort of warily.

"Oh, well, he's - "

"Mrs. Bryar!" Tiffany shouts, breezing into the kitchen, pulling Tyler Austen behind her. Tiffany's wearing her burnt-orange dress from the Creative Arts Faire. She's somehow managed to show even more cleavage this time around. Tyler's in tan slacks, a starched white shirt, and a tie that matches Tiffany's dress exactly. "Mrs. Bryar! I want you to meet my boyfriend! This is Tyler Austen," she says, positioning Tyler right in front of Mrs. Bryar for a full appraisal. "He's the third baseman on the varsity baseball team and he's in Honor Society."

Tyler's ears turn pink. I don't blame him with Tiffany showing him off like some terrific prize she won at a carnival.

"Mrs. Bryar, Tyler needs to know what we're having for dinner. He's a diabetic," Tiffany says.

"No, it's okay, I - "

"It's no trouble, Tyler," Tiffany interrupts. "Right, Mrs. Bryar?"

Mrs. Bryar must agree because she runs through the menu with Tyler, listing all the ingredients. Everything is fine for Tyler to eat, although he doesn't look very hungry when Mrs. Bryar finishes. Neither does Tiffany. Mom put together the most pretentious menu possible. The meal begins with cold cucumber soup, followed by _chair de crabes ravigote_, which is cold crabmeat with salad dressing. The main course is salt-crusted rack of lamb with _haricots vertes _and _pommes de terre au gratin_ (which are simply green beans and potatoes au gratin, but Mom won't admit that). Then fresh sliced cantaloupe for dessert. I know Mrs. Bryar worked hard all afternoon, but I am very thankful I'm eating dinner with Wes. I doubt he's making anything involving crabmeat or goat cheese.

Tiffany steps beside me and whispers, "All Mom cared about was what Tyler's dad does for a living. Apparently, a pool contractor isn't impressive enough. She barely gave poor Tyler a second look." Tiffany moves closer to Tyler and wraps her arms around his waist and begins kissing his neck. Right in front of Mrs. Bryar. Tiffany has no shame.

Maria swings around the doorway. She's dressed in an emerald-green velvet dress with a matching headband in her curly reddish-brown hair. "Mom says some asses better get in the living room. The guests are arriving."

We say goodbye to Mrs. Bryar, who's putting on her coat, getting ready to leave. Then my sisters, Tyler, and I walk out into the living room. Mr. and Mrs. Kerner are already in there, holding drinks Dad just poured. The Kerners live around the corner. Mrs. Kerner is also a real estate agent. In fact, she's the one who convinced Mom to enter the profession. Their daughter, Amanda, is on the yearbook staff with me. She's okay, but we've never been friends. I am disappointed, though, that she didn't come with her parents. She would have been someone for Meg to talk to after I leave.

The Jardins are in the foyer removing their coats. Mr. Jardin already has a drink in his hand. I wonder if brought it with him, or if Dad's just that fast. Mom and Mrs. Jardin are admiring each other, which is actually more of an excuse to admire themselves. Content that her mother is busy stroking her own ego, Meg slips away and rushes toward me, as fast as she can in her skin-tight dress. I don't see how she can breathe.

"Are you quite all right?" I ask her.

Meg touches the stomach of the plum-colored dress. "Mom said it would keep me from overeating. Oh my Lord, Shan, I think I'm going to die."

"Well, you certainly won't be able to sit down."

"No, I can. Mom made me practice before we left," Meg says, then looks over her shoulder at Mrs. Jardin. "My mother is such a cow. She told me breast implants can't give you cancer. You know what? I think she's lying."

Tiffany, standing behind Meg, rolls her eyes.

"Have you spoken to Greer?" Meg asks me.

"No," I reply with a frown. "Why? Have you?" I figured Greer would call Meg the first chance she got. Call Meg and attempt to turn her to her side. That's Greer.

Meg nods. "She called last night. She's really upset, Shan. She didn't mean what she said. Greer's just like that. Always putting her foot in her mouth."

"I don't accept her apology," I say, coolly. "She really hurt me." If she's actually sorry, Greer can wallow in it for a few days. I overlook her insolence and ego often enough. I am glad Greer won't be here tonight. When we were younger, our parents were close friends. In recent years that friendship has eroded slowly away to dust. My parents are not who they once were and the Carsons don't care for who they've become.

"Oh, Shan, you don't understand - " Meg bites her lip.

Mrs. Jardin is gliding toward us, martini in hand, and a fake smile on her face. "Shannon, what are you wearing?" she asks with a chuckle. "Just because Mick Stone broke your heart doesn't mean you should just give up." She chuckles again.

Tiffany slips her arm through mine. "He didn't break her heart. Shannon was going to dump him anyway. She can do better than a wrestler at Idaho State."

Another chuckle from Mrs. Jardin, high and patronizing. "Right. Now run upstairs and put on something decent. Ross Brown is on his way and he's single." Mrs. Jardin winks at me. "We'll find you a new one yet. I'd steer Meg in his direction, but I'm saving her for Dr. Irving's boy." Mrs. Jardin smiles and slaps Meg on the backside. "Better make your move soon, girl." Then she turns and glides away.

"Your mother would be plotting to marry you off to the son of her plastic surgeon," I comment.

Meg nods, solemnly. "All those discounted services."

"You should find someone completely inappropriate and jump his bones," Tiffany advises. "That'll show your mom."

Tyler looks worried. "Am I inappropriate?" he asks Tiffany.

"Are you kidding? My mom doesn't care who _I_ date. You're perfect, butterbean."

Butterbean? I raise an eyebrow at Meg, then we turn and walk away as Tiffany and Tyler begin baby talking to each other. We stroll passed Dad and Mr. Jardin, who are teaching Maria how to make a martini. Just what a twelve year old girl should be - a bartender. Mom ignores me as I walk by, lost in flirty conversation with two twenty-something men, who I assume are Raymond and Julian from her office.

"You should know," I tell Meg, "I'm not staying for the dinner party. I'm going out."

Meg's eyes widen. "What a great way to stick it to your mom!" she hisses, looking genuinely impressed. "You're so brave, Shan."

"Uh...yes. I'm punishing her," I reply with a pang of guilt.

Meg and I hide in the formal sitting room. A lot of high, false laughter drifts in toward us. Meg perches awkwardly on the end of the sofa, ankles crossed and tilting slightly sideways. I don't think Mrs. Jardin had her practice enough. Meg tries to bring up Greer several times, but I cut her off and change the subject. I hope she tells Greer. _Shannon's not interested in you or your insincere apologies._ Greer can reflect on that until Monday.

Mrs. Jardin tracks us down. She's like a bloodhound with her nose trained solely on Meg. She's pulling Ross Brown along with her. She's smiling, that fake smile of hers, but her hand is tight on his arm. Poor Ross Brown can barely cover his fright. He must see Mrs. Jardin as a vulture carrying him off to her hungry, desperate babies.

"Girls, you know Ross Brown," Mrs. Jardin says, sweetly, pushing Ross forward. She motions for Meg and I to stand.

Meg rises, slowly and awkwardly, then sticks out her hand. "Wonderful to see you again, Ross," she says, pleasantly.

"Hi Ross," I greet him without offering my hand. That's probably a good thing, as out of the corner of my eye, I notice Meg discreetly wipe her palm on her dress. Sweaty palms.

"Hi Meg, Shannon," he replies.

"I'll leave you three to chat," Mrs. Jardin tells us.

We stare at each other.

I've met Ross Brown several times over the years. Our fathers are golfing buddies. Mr. Brown's a lot like Dad and Mr. Jardin. They make a perfect threesome. Mrs. Brown is much better, which is why our family rarely socializes with the Browns. I once overheard Mrs. Brown call Mom and Mrs. Jardin "silicone pinheads". She didn't know I was in the next stall. I should have come out and told her I agree. Ross seems all right. He attends Stoneybrook High and he dated Anna in eighth grade. She was crazy about him. For about a week.

"I heard you got dumped by Mickey Stone," Ross finally says.

Oh, the humiliation.

"It was mutual," I lie.

Meg looks puzzled. "It was?"

"Yes!" I snap.

Ross grins. "Mickey Stone's a jerkoff. Did he ever tell you about the time I put his head in a toilet?"

I raise an eyebrow and laugh. "You put his head in a toilet?"

"Well, me and most of the varsity basketball team. It was last spring and we were shooting hoops at Stoneybrook Elementary. Then your jerkoff boyfriend shows up with his jerkoff friends. They started hassling us and pelting us with powdered donuts. So, we decided to set an example. We jumped Mickey and carried him into the girls restroom. Pete Black, Paul Stern, and I shoved his head in the toilet and flushed. We also stole his pants. Then we locked him in. His friends ran off and left him. Some little girl let him out like an hour later." Ross laughs.

I laugh, too. Meg gazes at Ross admiringly. "That's so cool," she says. I'm sure she's imagining shoving her mother's head in a toilet and flushing.

Ross looks very pleased with himself as he adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. "I think he stuck to loitering around Greenvale playgrounds after that."

Ross would be a good match for Meg. Mrs. Jardin surely wouldn't object to him, even if his dad isn't a plastic surgeon. Ross would probably even have a sense of humor about Mrs. Jardin accompanying them on their dates. "I need to leave now. I can't be late," I announce, checking my watch. I tilt my head against Meg's. "Sit by him at dinner," I whisper.

"You're not staying for dinner?" Ross asks.

"She's sticking it to her mom," Meg explains.

Ross nods. "I can respect that," he says, seriously.

I say my goodbyes and cross quickly through the living room. When I pass Dad, I hear him tell Mr. Jardin and Mr. Kerner that next fall, I'll start at Columbia. That's Dad's alma mater. I didn't even apply there. My heart is set on Wellesley, but Brown or Amherst will suffice. But why would Dad know that? I slip out through the kitchen and into the garage unseen. Mom and I aren't having a scene. I will simply be gone. It's up to her to tell the lie. Luckily, no one has parked behind me in the driveway. I back out easily and start toward downtown Stoneybrook.

I turn onto Birch Street, which runs behind Stoneybrook Bank. I've never been back this way, which is why I'm not worried about being seen at Wes' complex. I don't know anyone who lives in an apartment. I navigate my Explorer around the side of the complex, then into an empty space. I check the directions once more, then step out of the car. I need to find building F, apartment 137. It's dark out, but the street lamps burn brightly around the complex. I quickly find apartment 137. It's right off the parking lot, just like Wes said. It's on the ground floor with a small walled-in patio. I step into the flower bed and peer over into the patio. There's some kind of potted tree and a dusty chaise lounge. I walk around to the front door and knock. While I wait, I fluff my hair a little.

"Hey!" Wes greets me when he opens the door. "Come in!"

"Hi Wes," I step over the threshold into the living room.

Wes takes my coat then leans in to kiss me. It's still a bit of a shock when he does that. He kisses me longer than he usually does in greeting. When he pulls back he smiles. "Come on, let me give you the grand tour," he says, taking my hand. "This is, of course, the living room. I promise, I actually did clean it." The living room is long with a pale green tweed couch, two white marble coffee tables, and a beige recliner. The coffee tables are stacked with books, papers, and uncapped pens. There's also a television set on a white marble stand and a wide bookcase, its shelves crammed haphazardly with books, videos, and tapes. I think I've found Wes' first flaw - he's not exactly neat.

"And here's the kitchen and what passes for the dining room," Wes says, leading me into a L-shaped kitchen. It's messy with dinner preparations. The dining room is more like a nook with a card table and folding chairs for a dining table. Next Wes shows me the bathroom, which is, thankfully, very clean and smells like lemon cleanser. Lastly, Wes takes me into his bedroom, which I enter with a brief moment of hesitation. The room is much larger than I expected, filled with dark oak furniture and a queen-size bed covered in a navy and green plaid comforter.

When I pass by the dresser, something swats my head and hisses. Startled, I shriek and jump back.

"Oh, sorry!" Wes cries, looking just as startled. "I should have warned you about the cat."

"You have a cat?" I reply, wearily. I am not a huge fan of cats. I am a dog person. Dogs are loyal and friendly. Cats are snobbish and rude and remind me too much of people I know. The only cat I really like is Lindsey's cat, Missy Prissy. I look up. Crouched on top of the dresser, staring evilly down at me is the freakiest cat I've ever laid eyes on. It's a white and orange tabby Persian with enormous red-orange eyes.

Wes plucks the cat off the dresser. The cat growls, but Wes isn't bothered. "Shannon meet Darth Vader. Darth for short." Wes holds the cat out like he expects me to pet it.

"You named your cat Darth Vader?" I ask.

"Well, her name used to be Lady Marmalade, but uh, that had to be changed. She was a housewarming gift from my parents. Sort of. Actually, she used to be their cat, then one day I came home and her litter box, cat condo, and food dish were sitting in my living room. She was asleep in the sink. She's really a great cat. Really. She's very attached to me. She grades papers with me, cooks with me, sleeps with me - "

"The cat sleeps with you?" I ask. "In your bed?"

"Sure. That isn't a problem for you, is it?" Wes replies, then promptly, his cheeks pinken. "I mean...never mind."

I feel my own cheeks grow slightly warm. "Um...may I have something to drink?" I ask.

"Sure," Wes says, quickly. He finally drops the cat and I'm glad. The cat thing was starting to freak me out. The cat runs by me with another hiss and a swipe at my ankle. Then she leaps onto the bed and begins kneading the comforter, all the while staring at me as if to say, _I hope you don't think you'll be sleeping up here with us._

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach as I follow Wes into the kitchen. Janet's word echo in my mind, _He is going to have certain expectations. _We've only dated for two weeks. Wes can't possibly expect me to sleep with him! I haven't told him I'm a virgin. Should I? No, Janet's wrong. Wes wouldn't have that kind of expectation of me. Not after two weeks. He may be twenty-six, he may be very good-looking, but he's still sort of shy. He told me he's only ever had one really serious girlfriend. They dated for thirteen months and broke up a year and a half ago. He doesn't jump from girl to girl, from conquest to conquest.

I nearly have myself convinced.

"Here you go," Wes says, breaking into my thoughts. "I bought diet just for you."

"Thanks, Wes," I reply, taking the glass he's offering. I sip the soda. "Do you need any help?"

Wes shakes his head. "No. Everything's almost ready. I, uh, hope you weren't expecting a fancy dinner. I should have told you, I'm a terrible cook. There's only one thing I make decently - other than grilled sandwiches - and that's meatloaf."

I laugh. "That's the only decent thing I can make, too!"

Wes looks relieved.

"And anything is better than what my mother was serving at her dinner party. Cold cucumber soup, _chair de crabes ravigote_, salt-crusted lamb. She's so pretentious," I say, bitterly. I catch myself. "Why don't I clean up?" I suggest, picking up an empty plastic bag. I start tossing in empty wrappers and potato peelings.

"I can do that later."

"No, it's okay."

I clean the entire kitchen while Wes sets the table. It looks much better when I'm done. Then Wes and I sit down to dinner. Despite his claims of being a terrible cook, everything looks wonderful. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, asparagus, sourdough rolls. Real food that real people eat. I take a small bite of the meatloaf.

"It's good," I tell Wes when I swallow. I smile. "And you have a really great apartment. I should have said so before. I can't wait to move out on my own."

Wes grins. "It's not all it's cracked up to be. I have to do my own laundry and vacuum and make my own bed. Greenvale's too far for Mom to come over and do it all for me."

"Is it annoying living so close to the parking lot and street?"

"Not really. Birch Street isn't very busy. The road dead ends not far passed the complex. I am hoping to change units soon though. I'm on a list. But it was hard enough getting this apartment. There are only two other apartment complexes in Stoneybrook, you know. Waterford Gardens is all old people and Pine Meadows is right across the street from Stoneybrook University. I attended enough parties there to know I'd rather live under my desk at SMS than in that complex."

"Why do you want to change units?" I ask, cutting into the asparagus. It's a tad undercooked.

"Honestly? I hate my neighbors. The couple in the unit next to me - I call them the screamers and the name pretty much says it all. When they're not fighting they're, uh, making up. Loudly. And frequently. And they never close their patio door. Then the people above them, they have three kids. _I think._ No one ever leaves the apartment and it kind of creeps me out. Then the guy above me has these horrible children who visit every other weekend. They're always up there running around and screeching and throwing stuff off the balcony. And his ex-wife is a nutjob. Last winter, she set fire to the flower bed outside my patio on fire. I don't know what the hell that was about."

My jaw drops. "She set the flower bed on _fire_?"

"Yeah, so you can see why I'm anxious to switch units."

"At least it's never dull around here," I point out.

"True," Wes says with a laugh.

After dinner, I insist on clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. Meanwhile, Wes gets dessert - strawberry cheesecake, which he freely admits came from a bakery. I don't mind. I can't bake either.

"Oh! You got the movie!" I exclaim when I close the dishwasher. The video box for _Tahitian Orchid_ is sitting on the counter beside the telephone. I pick up the box and study the cover. It's mostly black with a girl on the front with dark auburn hair and dark make-up. She looks fourteen or fifteen. Her head is bowed, but her eyes are raised upward at the camera. There's a wilted white orchid in her hand. "Innocence is a flower," I read the tagline aloud. "Is the Tahitian orchid the flower or the girl?" I ask Wes.

"Uh...neither," he answers. "It's sort of a...move...or a...position."

I furrow my brow. "Okay," I say. I'm obviously missing something. "Let's put it on." I remove the video from the box and walk into the living room. I switch on the television and slide the video into the VCR.

Wes follows me, carrying our cheesecake. "You really want to watch this?" he asks.

"Sure. I would never admit it to any of my friends, but I've been absolutely dying to see it," I tell him. I push play, then sit down on the couch beside Wes.

Ten minutes into the movie, Wes is pounding on my back because I'm choking on my cheesecake.

Oh dear Lord.

When I was a little girl and my father was still the kind of father who came home on weekends, he had an enormous crush on that actress Kathleen Turner. Every Saturday he watched _Body Heat_, which he called the greatest movie ever made. I have never seen a racier movie. Until now.

Mrs. Stevenson was wrong. Sally White's mother wasn't simply an extra. She did have only one line in the movie (three words, two of which were "me" and "harder"). However, she also had the first sex scene. On a tractor. In a cornfield. I now know a couple things about Sally White's mother that I didn't know before. One: she did not yet have breast implants when _Tahitian Orchid_ was filmed. Two: she is not a natural blonde.

"Uh...do you want me to turn it off?" Wes asks when I've finished choking. His cheeks are bright pink.

I realize my hands are now covering my mouth in horror. "What is he doing with that...never mind," I say from behind my hands. My cheeks must be as red as Wes'. I've never watched explicit sex scenes with a guy before. It's not the kind of thing I ever watch with _anyone_. Dear Lord. What Wes must think! "Is the whole movie like this?" I ask him.

"Uh...pretty much."

"Maybe we could not watch it then."

Wes hits the stop button on the VCR remote. We sit in absolute silence for a few seconds. "Uh...I've been wondering why you wanted to watch that movie," he says.

"The girl on the tractor? I know her daughter," I reply. It sounds really dumb now that I say it aloud. "I didn't know what the movie was about. Dear Lord! Imagine if that was your mother!" I exclaim, horrified all over again. Maybe I should excuse some of Sally's rudeness just because of that scene. Not all. Not much. But some.

"It could be worse," Wes says. "Your mom could be the girl on the washing machine. But that scene comes later."

"I am so embarrassed," I admit. Then I laugh.

Wes laughs, too. "Yeah, I couldn't figure out if you had really bizarre movie taste or if you were just really forward."

I blush again. "Um...so how does the movie end?" I ask, lamely. What else do I say? _No, Wes, I was not intending the movie as foreplay. I hope you weren't looking forward to that._

"Oh, the guy in the beginning - Jamison? He steals this diamond and runs off to New Mexico with this girl he kidnaps from an orphanage. Then he meets this hustler who wants to trade her for the secret of the Tahitian orchid, which is this...position. I don't remember how it ends," Wes replies. He switches off the television which has gone to that snowy screen. "I'm kind of relieved you're not _that_ forward."

"And I'm relieved that you're relieved," I tell him. "And I'm also weirded out that my housekeeper has seen that movie. I don't think I'll ever look at her the same way again."

Wes laughs. "Someday, we'll look back on this and laugh. Of course, we're already laughing, so I guess that's a good sign." Then he leans forward and kisses me. I guess that despite his relief, the movie sort of turned him on because he kisses me hard and hungrily. Possessively. I kiss him back, just as hard. I loop my arms around his neck and run my fingers up into his hair. He pushes me backward into a sort of awkward position, his body heavy on mine. I keep kissing him, trying to not think of all that someday entails.


	16. Chapter 16

Autumn is definitely in full force Sunday morning. There's a cold wind blowing from the east, causing the remaining leaves to fall from their branches, only to be carried away down the street. Even so, Kristy Thomas is in her driveway in cut-off shorts and a white thermal, washing her station wagon. I watch her for awhile from the formal sitting room window, sipping from a mug of chamomile tea, and feeling very warm inside the quiet of my house. Upstairs, Tiffany and Maria are still sleeping. It's eleven o' clock, later than I usually allow them to sleep in, but theirs was a late night. My parents are already gone. Surprise, surprise. Dad to the golf course, Mom to an Open House in Mercer. I overheard her tell Dad. She isn't speaking to me.

When I tire of standing at the window, I call for Astrid and head out the front door. Astrid trots happily behind me as I cross the street toward Kristy. I shout out to her and wave. Kristy glances up from the windshield she's soaping and grins.

"You look so grown up walking over with your coffee," she says, teasingly. "Here on a social call?"

"It's tea," I reply, leading Astrid toward the side gate. I unlatch it and hold the gate open for her. "Go play with your daughter," I instruct and as if understanding, Astrid gallops through the gate. "It's a tad chilly to be washing your car," I comment.

Kristy shrugs. "Yeah, but Mom's been after me to do it. She doesn't like it dirty, even if it does just sit behind the gate." Kristy picks up the garden hose and begins rinsing the station wagon. The soap slips down the sides, rolling over the hood, and onto the driveway. "I overheard Watson and Charlie discussing cars when Charlie was home last weekend. I think maybe Watson's getting ready to buy me a new one. I hope so."

I regard Kristy's station wagon, now dripping wet with water. There are dents in the fender and along the passenger side with scratches across the hood. Some paint has peeled off the roof. It's out of place in our neighborhood. Doesn't fit in. And maybe that's exactly how it makes Kristy feel. "That would be great," I tell her.

"Yeah, I'd kind of like a Mustang like Abby's, but I'd rather eat my shoe than let Abby think I was copying her."

Smiling, I set my mug on the flower bed curbing and pick up an extra towel. I begin helping Kristy dry off the station wagon. "Speaking of Abby, where is she?" I ask, surprised Abby isn't over here spraying us with the garden hose and avoiding any actual work.

"Holed up in her house doing homework," Kristy answers. "I haven't seen her since Friday night. She came over while I was baby-sitting Sari."

"Oh, did she tell you about Greer and I?"

"Yeah," Kristy replies, not looking up from the tail light she's drying. "And I have a few things to say about it to Greer on Monday. But right now, I think we're done. So, what if there's a few water spots?" Kristy says, tossing her towel to the ground. "Let's make hot chocolate."

"Shouldn't we clean up first?" I point out, surveying the driveway which is scattered with wet rags and a tipped over bucket and the garden hose coiled around the station wagon.

Kristy sighs. "I guess. Go inside and put the milk on the stove. I'll clean up."

Kristy's house is eerily silent. I'm slightly disappointed. It's like being at home. In the kitchen, I pour milk into a saucepan and begin heating it on the stove. I take out a blue and white speckled mug for Kristy, then rinse out my own mug.

"Where is everyone?" I ask Kristy when she walks into the kitchen.

"Nannie and her movie club went to an early showing of that snooze-fest about Franz Ferdinand," Kristy answers, opening a cabinet and removing a large assortment of hot chocolate packets. "David Michael slept over with Nicky Pike last night - either a very brave or very stupid move on his part. Watson took Emily Michelle to a birthday party up in Levittown. And Mom's upstairs in the shower. Now, I'm having double milk chocolate. How about you?"

I peer into the box. "Um...raspberry chocolate."

"Good. That's my least favorite," Kristy says, pouring the warm milk into our mugs. She carries the mugs to the table, where I'm waiting with the open packets. "I wish we had mini-marshmallows, but Emily Michelle poured them all in her Cookie Crisp this morning." Kristy sits down and stirs her hot chocolate. A little too fast. Some sloshes over the sides. "So, is Greer Carson a moron or what?"

I actually laugh. "Kristy!" I cry.

"What?" Kristy asks, innocently. "It's true, isn't it? I mean, Greer has her good points. She's fun to be around. _Most of the time._ But man, she can be a real blowhard."

I nod, stirring my hot chocolate. "She hurt my feelings a lot," I admit. "I guess Mick and I had our problems. I see that now. But it isn't all my fault. He couldn't have dumped me just because I wouldn't sleep with him. If he really loved me, it wouldn't have mattered." I take a sip of hot chocolate. "Mmm. How can you not like this? But about the sex thing, it was bad enough having Mick nag at me. He could be relentless sometimes. And then I had to deal with Greer, too. She thinks she's so sex savvy. And she thinks everyone ought to have sex anytime with anyone."

Kristy's quiet, stirring her hot chocolate, needlessly. It embarrasses her when anyone talks about sex. She'd rather talk about anything else. Except maybe menstruation. "I think you should talk to Lindsey," she tells me.

"I can't talk to you about this?" I ask.

"No, it's not that," Kristy replies. "You just need to talk to Lindsey."

I set down my mug. "Why? Does Lindsey know something? What does Lindsey know?"

"I can't tell you. I promised. Softball team code, you know. You have to talk to Lindsey."

I stare at Kristy, thinking, turning possibilities over in my mind. What does Lindsey know that she'd tell Kristy and not me? "Fine," I say, coolly. "I'll talk to Lindsey."

"Good," Kristy says, not bothered by my coolness.

We sit silently awhile, sipping our hot chocolate, the room's only sound the ticking of the wall clock. Kristy drains her mug, then stands and pours more milk into the saucepan. I'm only half-finished with mine.

"I'm really glad I didn't sleep with Mick, you know," I tell Kristy when she sits back down. "I would have regretted it so much. I probably would hate myself now. I wonder...I wonder how you keep that from happening. Hating yourself later. Your first time, you know, you're probably not going to be with him forever. It'll end and then do you regret it? Do you regret giving that away to this person you now despise?"

Kristy shrugs. "Maybe you won't despise him. Maybe you'll stay friends."

"Maybe..." I look down at my hot chocolate and stir it absently with my spoon. "I would never want to be like Greer or Lindsey though. Giving away my virginity at the first possible opportunity, just to be done with it. I think that's worse than ending up hating the other person. You should be in love. How do you think you know it's the right time and the right person though?" I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand, still stirring.

Kristy shrugs again. "I don't know. I'm not having sex until I'm married."

"Good girl," Elizabeth says, walking into the kitchen. She's in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with her hair wrapped in a towel. She tugs on Kristy's ponytail and kisses the top of her head.

I sit up straight, embarrassed. I wonder how much Elizabeth overheard.

"Is this your milk, Kristy?" Elizabeth asks, lifting the saucepan of milk off the burner.

"Yes, but you can have it."

"Thank you," Elizabeth says, removing a mug from the cabinet. "So, what did I interrupt?"

"Shannon was just saying how she's glad she didn't have sex with Mick."

I kick Kristy under the table. "Kristy!" I hiss, giving her a sharp look.

Kristy is undaunted. "What? That's a _good_ thing," she tells me. "You didn't give into peer pressure. That's something to be proud of." Kristy turns to Elizabeth, who's just sat down beside Kristy. "Greer Carson's had sex with five guys. Like _real_ sex. It's so gross."

Elizabeth tears open a packet of dark chocolate mint and pours it into her mug. She steals Kristy's spoon to stir it. "I think that's very sad," Elizabeth comments.

"Elizabeth," I start, setting down my own spoon. "how do you know it's the right time to have sex?" I feel my face grow warm as soon as the words leave my mouth. But who else am I going to ask? Not my own mother.

"Didn't you hear Kristy? When you're married," Elizabeth replies. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug. "We were just talking about it. About Mick and Greer and everything."

"You'll know when it's the right time. And the right person," Elizabeth assures me. "I can't explain how, but you just know."

"What if it's the wrong time and the wrong person?"

"Well...then you learn from that mistake. You move on and try to make a better decision next time. I know that with me - "

"Oh, no, no, no!" Kristy shrieks. She clutches her throat and falls backward off the bench, writhing on the tile and gagging.

Elizabeth gives me a pointed look. "I guess I don't have to worry about her making any poor decisions anytime soon," she says, then glances back down at Kristy. "Get off the floor, Kristy. Nannie just cleaned it."

"I'm not sure anyone would want her," I say, seriously.

Elizabeth laughs.

Kristy's eyes appear over the top of the table. "I've eaten enough meals with Sam and Janet to know not to make stupid decisions. You'd think Greer's been over often enough to know too."

"Mrs. Carson made sure she got on the pill after we came back from Camp Erie last summer."

Elizabeth's eyebrows shoot up. "Well! I'm not sure I agree with _that_," she says. "I like to think I'm progressive, but that may be a little too liberal for me."

"Maybe Mrs. Carson knows Sam and Janet, too," Kristy suggests.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "Just what I always envisioned for my son - to be the poster child for birth control." Elizabeth slides off the bench and dumps the remainder of her hot chocolate into the sink. "I have laundry to fold upstairs. Enjoy the rest of your morning, girls," she tells us. She hooks an arm around Kristy's neck, pretending to choke her. "Don't have sex," she says, presumably to Kristy, but she's looking at me.

* * *

It's later in the afternoon when I drive to Lindsey's. She's still grounded. Her three weeks will be up on Tuesday. But I'm counting on the Duprees bending the rules for me again and allowing me to see her. Kristy has more than piqued my interest. If Lindsey holds some kind of secret not meant for my ears, then I must know. And I can't wait until tomorrow.

Standing on the front porch, I can hear the vacuum running inside. I press the doorbell and hold it down, so the chimes ring twice as long. The vacuum shuts off abruptly and a voice calls out, "It's open!"

I walk inside. Dr. Dupree's on the stairs with the vacuum, stretched across several steps, struggling with the hose attachment. Her glasses are sliding off her nose and her hair is bursting loose from its clip atop her head. It's strange seeing someone do their own housework.

"Hello, Dr. Dupree," I greet her, crossing the living room to the staircase. I lean against the banister. "May I see Lindsey? I have yearbook photos." I hold up the photo envelope as proof. They're photos from the Creative Arts Faire. I picked them up on my way here. As Student Life editor, Lindsey must label and approve all the photos. Dr. Dupree knows this.

Dr. Dupree sits back on her knees and pushes her glasses up her nose. "You may," she replies. "Lindsey's upstairs. She's...in her closet."

"Oh," I say, surprised. "I didn't know she still did that."

Dr. Dupree frowns. "It's a more recent development," she says.

"Oh, well, okay. It was nice seeing you, Dr. Dupree," I say, lamely, squeezing passed her on the stairs.

"Lovely to see you again, Shannon," she replies, then switches the vacuum on again.

Lindsey's bedroom door is closed, but she doesn't answer when I knock. I crack the door and peer in. The room is deserted. I slip in and cross the room to the closet door, which is also closed. I knock loudly.

"Who is it?" Lindsey calls out, sounding agitated.

"It's Shannon," I reply.

"Oh...you may enter."

I open the closet door and step inside. Lindsey has the largest walk-in closet I've ever seen that is not attached to a master bedroom. When we were kids, we called it our clubhouse. We decorated the inside with posters and set out potpourri and scented candles. The closet gets rather hot in the summertime, but stays cool in the autumn and winter. When I spent the night at Lindsey's, we even slept in the closet. We were strange kids. I'm not sure why the Duprees permitted it.

Lindsey's propped up against several pillows, seated on a pallet between two bookcases. There's a radio on one of the shelves, playing the new Great Blue Whales tape. I shut the closet door and sit down on the floor. I glance around. All our posters are still on the walls. Frolicking kittens and pudgy puppies and flutes laying beside blood-red roses. It's like stepping through a time warp. _Shannon Kilbourne, this is your childhood!_ The only thing that has changed are the shoes in the shoe rack and the clothes hanging above them. I thought Lindsey stopped coming in here years ago. I thought her grandparents made her.

"My jailers let you in," Lindsey says, dully. She's twisting her braid around her hand. The end is damp.

"Yes, your grandmother let me in. What are you doing in here?"

Lindsey shrugs. "Listening to music and reading a magazine," she replies, showing me the new copy of _#1 Fan._ She tosses it aside.

"I didn't know the new issue was out yet."

"George bought it at the supermarket this morning."

"I want to borrow it when you're done. There's supposed to be an interview with Desmond from Great Blue Whales," I say. I pick up a plate with a half-eaten egg salad sandwich and carrot sticks. "You're eating your meals in here, too?"

Lindsey shrugs again. "This is where I was when Sadie brought it up."

It's good that I am so experienced with masking my emotions because I manage to not look at Lindsey as if she is crazy. "Are you okay?" I ask her, as gently as possible without sounding patronizing.

Lindsey makes her sour lemon face. "_No_, I'm not okay. My grandparents are punishing me for no good reason. Greer was grounded for _three_ days. I've been locked up in this house for almost three _weeks_. My grandparents just like to torture me. I think they're sadists." Lindsey wraps her braid tighter around her hand, not looking at me, still making that face. "They're sending me back to Dr. Petrinski," she tells me, bitterly.

I raise an eyebrow, then quickly lower it before Lindsey notices. "I thought you liked Dr. Petrinski," I reply. Dr. Petrinski is a psychiatrist.

"I never said I _liked_ her," Lindsey protests. "I said she wasn't as bad as the others. She still messes with my head. Sadie and George _want _me to be screwed up. They send me to quacks on purpose. They like controlling me. They like bossing me around. I told you, they're sadists."

"Are you taking your medication?" I ask, bluntly.

Lindsey looks offended. "Of course."

I look at her, doubtfully.

Lindsey ignores the look. "I want you to know," she tells me, "that I'm probably going to run away. So, don't be surprised when Sadie calls you, pretending to be upset when really she's just mad she doesn't have anyone to push around anymore. Don't worry, Shannon. I'll be okay. My mother was okay for years when she ran away. I'll send you a postcard."

Even my mask has cracks. As I stare at Lindsey, it's difficult to not display the full scope of my disbelief and alarm. I absolutely don't know what to say.

"Are those the photos from the Creative Arts Faire?" Lindsey asks, reaching out and grabbing the envelope off my lap. She dumps out the photos and begins flipping through them until she finds a photo of herself. "Ugh. I _do_ look like a moron!" She rips the photo in half and tosses it into the air.

Technically, that's the property of Stoneybrook Day, but I don't point that out. Instead, I stand up and brush off my tan slacks. "Well...I need to go home," I tell Lindsey. There's no use discussing Greer or anything important with her. Not when she's like this. "I'll see you at school tomorrow."

"Are you coming to George and Sadie's Halloween party Tuesday night? I can't leave. My grounding doesn't expire until midnight."

I'd forgotten Tuesday was Halloween. "Sure. I'll come," I reply.

"Good. You can protect me from the sadists," Lindsey says, picking up her magazine. "Will you tell Sadie I'd like my banana pudding now?"

"Sure. I'll see you tomorrow, Lindsey." I open the closet door and slip out, shutting it behind me. I stand outside the door a moment. Inside the closet, I hear Lindsey's flipping through the magazine, the Great Blue Whales droning on in the background. I close my eyes tight and take a deep breath.

Dr. Dupree is vacuuming under the couch when I come downstairs. I lean against it, watching, until she notices me and turns off the vacuum. "That wasn't long," she says, straightening up. She wipes her brow and smiles. "You finished labeling already?"

"Yes," I lie. I take a breath. "Lindsey wants her pudding now," I inform Dr. Dupree. "And you should know, she says she's going to run away, and I don't think she's taking her medication."

Dr. Dupree doesn't reply. She stares at me, blankly. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Finally, Dr. Dupree smiles, faintly. "Thank you, Shannon," she says. "Thank you for telling me."

Normally, I would never betray a confidence. But sometimes secrets are too important, bigger than ourselves, and must be spoken.


	17. Chapter 17

Greer is mad at me for being mad at her. It's silly and only makes me angrier with her. We don't talk on Monday. Kristy, Abby, and I eat at our own table during lunch while Greer sits at our usual table with Lindsey, Meg, and Sally. During study period, I leave Greer and Meg alone at our table. Instead I sit with Amanda Kerner and Al Hall. Greer and Meg whisper and giggle all period, as usual, with Ms. Shellback, the librarian, shushing them occasionally. Amanda and Al never speak a word to me, or to each other. They keep their heads low over their assignments, working diligently. Although I typically use my study period wisely, I instead spend the period composing a long letter to Anna. We haven't talked since her last visit, the visit of the Big Reveal. I wrote her once last week and she sent me a New Haven postcard. It didn't say much, but she knows I like postcards. I keep them in a special album, all the places I have been and all the places I hope to see.

Tuesday is more of the same.

After school on Tuesday, I find my friends - sans Greer - standing together outside the steps of our building. Sally White's with them. I don't consider her a friend. Just a nuisance.

"Did you miss your bus?" I ask Lindsey.

"No," she answers, tightly. "George is picking me up. He's making me go to the supermarket with him. We're shopping for the party. Are you all coming?"

Kristy nods. "Yeah, Abby and I have our costumes all ready."

"They're great," Abby adds. "But they're top secret."

"I can come," Meg says, which is surprising. Mrs. Jardin's letting her out unsupervised at a party full of Halloween candy and pastries? "My parents are going to the Halloween party at the club." The club is the Greenvale Country Club, where the Jardins are members. The Greenvale Country Club is very selective, which basically means it's very good at keeping out non-whites and Jews. My family belongs to the Briergren Club in Mercer, where we've belonged for years, ever since I was a little kid and my parents still had a social conscience. Now that they are different people, they don't object to the Greenvale Country Club anymore and spend quite a lot of time there with the Jardins. Meg has invited me to the Greenvale Country Club plenty of times, but I refuse to go on principle. Meg has never invited Abby and that's something about Meg that bothers me.

"I haven't decided if I'm going to dress up or not," I say. A costume isn't required. The Duprees never wear costumes and it's their party. "I don't exactly have anything to wear."

"I'm not dressing up," Meg says.

"I might not either," Lindsey says.

"Isn't this kind of lame?" Sally asks. So far she's kept her silence, but I knew we couldn't count on her to keep it for long. We're not that lucky. "You're spending Halloween with a bunch of old professors. That's sad."

I start to point out that Sally's just jealous she's not invited. But Sally would probably take that as a dare to show up uninvited. I'm proud that Lindsey hasn't offered her an invitation. Maybe Lindsey's finally getting over wanting to be chosen by Sally White.

Kristy scrunches her face. "Why do you have to be such a jerk?" she demands. "We've been a lot more polite than most people would be. If you think we're such a joke, then go annoy some other group. We don't need any more jerks with over-inflated egos. We already have Greer."

"Wow. You sting with your words, Kat," Sally replies in her usual bored voice. Her expression doesn't change. She gives no indication that Kristy's words have done more than fill up air space.

A car horn blasts. At the curb, Sally's mother is parked in their black Mercedes. I've never seen anyone but the chauffer pick Sally up or drop her off. And it's the first time I've seen Lisanne Faulkner in person. She still has long curly blonde hair like she did twenty years ago in _Tahitian Orchid_. I'm suddenly embarrassed, realizing I've seen this woman naked.

Sally's mother blasts the horn again. "It's been a pleasure chatting with you all," Sally says. "Catch you later, Kat, Starshine, Abigross, Lindsey." Sally strides away, quick and confident, as always.

"Did she...did she call me _Abigross_?" demands Abby, trying to decide to react in shock or fury. She settles somewhere in between.

"I didn't get a nickname!" Lindsey wails.

"Feel free to take Abigross," Abby offers.

"She didn't even say goodbye to me," Meg points out. She doesn't look particularly upset though.

Kristy throws her arms in the air. "That girl!" she exclaims. I expect more, but apparently Kristy can't articulate her frustration further.

I turn to Lindsey, who's rifling through her bag. "I'm really pleased that you didn't invite her," I say.

Lindsey looks up. There's something guilty in her eyes.

I almost gasp. "You invited her?"

Lindsey shakes her head. "Well, no. I figured out her system. If I invited her, she wouldn't come. But if she's not invited, she'll come."

Kristy throws her arms in the air again. "You _want _that mutant to come? Why?"

Lindsey shrugs.

I don't know what to say. I am simply appalled. After all this time, after all Sally White has said and done, Lindsey still wants to be chosen. How can she be fixated on a slight from eighth grade? How can she weigh her worth through Sally White's eyes? I've always been perplexed by Lindsey, her insecurities and her lies. I know she has problems, problems I will never understand. But why can't she control herself a little better?

"Oh, look, there's George," Lindsey says, quickly. Her grandfather has just turned into the parking lot. "See you all at six!" she calls, racing down the sidewalk toward the car. Her grandfather hasn't even stopped completely when she yanks open the door and jumps in.

"Unbelievable," mutters Kristy.

And I have to agree.

* * *

I'm standing in the kitchen an hour later, eating a peanut butter sandwich when the telephone rings. I allow it to ring four times, hoping Tiffany or Maria will answer. They're home. They're upstairs in their rooms and each has her own phone. But on the fourth ring, I take a quick drink of milk, then pick up the receiver.

"Kilbourne residence," I say, briskly.

A boy's voice replies. "May I speak to Shannon?" he asks.

I don't recognize the voice. "Karl?" I reply. Karl Schmauder is the only boy who ever calls for me. But he always calls on my private line.

"No, this is Ross Brown."

"Ross Brown?" I repeat, perplexed. Ross Brown has never, ever called me. Maybe he left something here. "How are you, Ross? Did you enjoy my mother's pretentious dinner?"

Ross laughs in this odd, strained sort of way. "Um...it was interesting. I'd never tried that crab thing before...and I doubt I'll ever try it again." Ross says, then clears his throat. "So...SHS's fall play opens this Thursday. They're doing _Dracula._ I know you like theater - your sister told me about the play you wrote. So...do you want to go? With me?"

I remove the receiver from my ear and stare at it. It's a good thing Ross can't see the horror currently washing over my face. Ross Brown is asking _me_ out? On a _date_? I meant him for Meg! A nice normal boy who could put up with her mother. When I asked Meg about Ross on Monday, she said he was "all right" and that, yes, she would go out with him if he asked and her mother approved.

I put the receiver back to my ear after taking a deep breath. "It's nice of you to ask, Ross," I begin, sounding pleasant and regretful, "but I'm already seeing someone."

Ross is silent a moment. "Mrs. Jardin said you were unattached," he says and I know he doesn't believe me. I'm blowing him off.

"Mrs. Jardin doesn't know every detail of my personal life," I reply, almost testily. Then I plunge on, as bold and forward as can be. "Thank you for thinking of me, but honestly, I hoped you would like Meg."

"Meg Jardin?"

"Yes, Meg Jardin," I reply. How many Megs do he and I know in common?

"I thought Meg Jardin was practically betrothed already. Isn't her mother working out the details of her dowry as we speak?"

I laugh. "She doesn't even know that boy!"

"Ah, well, Meg's pretty nice and all, but well...she's not very...not very..."

I can see where this is heading. "Intellectually stimulating?" I finish.

"I was going to say 'smart' but yours sounds better."

I begin to fidget with the phone cord. I know Meg isn't exactly the brightest girl in Stoneybrook, but she's not exactly dumb either. The fact that it matters to Ross is impressive. Meg is beautiful and that's usually all anyone cares about. If he knew her, he would be good for her. "Meg has a lot of great qualities," I assure him. "And she isn't stupid. She's pretty decent in languages and her best subject is astronomy. And she plays the flute. Don't you play an instrument, too?" I remember when he dated Anna, classical music was their common interest. He also wrote Anna poems. Meg likes poetry, as long as it's sappy and romantic.

"I play clarinet in the school orchestra, but I'm not very good."

An idea forms in my head. "What are you doing tonight? Do you want to go to a party?" I ask. I know I'm being pushy, but sometimes people need steering.

* * *

I wear Tiffany's Hot Dog On A Stick uniform to the Duprees party. I go alone because Kristy and Abby have to pick up some last minute item for Kristy's costume. They'll meet me there. Lindsey's street is already lined with cars when I turn the corner. I have to park five houses away. I decided to leave my coat in the car, a decision I regret as soon as I walk three feet. Little kids and their parents stare at me as they walk by holding their trick-or-treat buckets. It's Halloween. We're supposed to look silly. I tug on my shorts self-consciously. I've never worn such short shorts. Head held high, I stride down the street, ignoring several children who ask, "What is she supposed to be?" I know I look ridiculous.

Lindsey answers the door when I ring the bell. She's wearing Meg's old field hockey uniform - a short pleated navy and white plaid kilt and a white polo shirt with the SDS crest over the left breast. Meg played field hockey until eighth grade. Eighth grade was when Mrs. Jardin decided Meg needed to put aside childish, tomboyish things, like field hockey and slacks and apparently, eating. It's too bad. Meg was an excellent player.

"You dressed up!" I exclaim when Lindsey lets me in. It's a good sign. Maybe she's finished sulking and acting strangely. Sometimes her odd bouts pass quickly.

Lindsey shrugs. "I guess as long as I'm trapped in this house for one more night, I might as well pretend to enjoy myself. Look, I even have a hockey stick. Meg found it in her basement underneath a row boat. Sadie told me not to carry it around. She said it might be dangerous. I'm seventeen years old! I think I can hold a stick without maiming myself or another person!"

I furrow my brow. Why do the Jardins have a row boat in their basement? But that isn't important. "I invited someone. I hope that's okay. He'll be here around six-thirty."

Lindsey smiles, slyly and grabs my arm. "Is _he _coming? Your mystery date? I know you're still seeing him. Don't lie to me now!"

I shake Lindsey off. "Who's lying?" I reply. "And yes, I'm still seeing him. But it's still a secret! But no, he isn't coming tonight. He has...other plans." Actually, Wes is chaperoning the SMS Halloween Hop, but I can't tell Lindsey that. "I invited someone else. The son of a friend of my father's. His name is Ross and I think he likes Meg." All right, that's an outright lie. I know he doesn't like Meg, but that could change. "Is Meg here yet? I didn't look for her car."

"Um...yeah...she's in the dining room...with Sally White."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Well, I guess your plan worked," I say, shortly. I start walking toward the dining room with Lindsey following behind me. She's chattering so fast I can't understand a word. That nervous chatter of hers. The chatter of when she's displeased someone.

Meg and Sally are standing by the dining room table, where a buffet has been laid out. Meg's wearing the same dress she wore to the Stones' party - the short-sleeved white one with the tiny blue flowers and the non-existent skirt. I hope she's better about not flashing her thong this time. She has a paper bowl in her hand and dips a piece of sourdough bread into it. Spinach dip, I assume. Just what she needs when Ross arrives, spinach stuck in her teeth. Sally also has a paper bowl in her hand, but she's dipping tortilla chips in it. She's wearing her black stilettos, as usual, and her tight blue jeans, this time with a mulberry-colored tank top and cardigan. And once again, she is quite obviously not wearing a bra.

"Do you enjoy showing up places uninvited?" I demand when I reach them.

"No, it's okay," Lindsey protests.

Sally's eyes flick over my costume. "Take a job at the mall, Starshine? I'll have to come buy a corn dog from you. And I didn't show up uninvited. Meg brought me."

I glare at Meg. "You _brought_ her?"

Meg's eyes shift, uncomfortably. "Well...I was getting ready to leave and she came to the front door. Did you know she lives on Green House Drive, too? I didn't! She's all the way at the other end."

"We're practically neighbors," says Sally, spooning seven-layer dip onto a chip. "Now I can get rides with Meg anytime."

Perfect. Now she can show up _everywhere._ "Why don't you have a license?" I ask, irritably. "Was it revoked?"

"I've never lived anywhere long enough to finish driver's ed."

"Why don't you get something to eat, Shannon?" Lindsey suggests, pushing me forward, gently. She wants me to stop arguing with Sally. She wants me to not ruin this for her. Because Lindsey is my friend and sort of unstable lately, I drop the subject and turn from Sally White and focus my attention on the buffet.

I'm biting into a deviled egg when Meg begins laughing. I turn to see what she's laughing at and almost spit out my half-chewed egg. Kristy and Abby are walking toward us, grinning and waving. "Those are your top secret costumes?" I cry, not bothering to swallow. Gross, I know.

Kristy and Abby have come dressed as each other. Abby straightened her hair - I wonder how long that took - and pulled it back in a ponytail. She's wearing Kristy's SDS softball uniform with Kristy's whistle around her neck. She's even wearing the same pale pink eyeshadow Kristy usually wears with mascara and lipgloss. (This may never occur again). Kristy is dressed in Abby's soccer uniform with a soccer ball under her arm and for some reason, an asthma inhaler around her neck on a lanyard. And on her head is a giant curly black wig.

"Pretty good, huh?" Kristy asks. Her face is barely visible underneath all that hair.

"It was my idea," says Abby.

"It was not," Kristy argues. Kristy pushes some hair out of her face and notices Sally. "What are you staring at?" she demands.

"I'm trying to decide who's appearance has most improved."

Kristy turns to Lindsey. "Lindsey, out of respect for your grandparents and their lovely home, I will not dump the spinach dip over Sally White's head."

"You can't reach my head. You're too short," Sally points out.

And then they're off, bickering like an old married couple. Despite my own propensity to trade barbs with Sally White, I really can't listen to her and Kristy for very long. Especially not when Abby jumps in the middle of them. Plus, I need to talk to Lindsey alone. It's been nagging at me since I spoke to Kristy on Sunday. I need to know what Lindsey's keeping secret from me. "I have to talk to you in private," I tell Lindsey, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away. The last thing I hear before we duck into the kitchen is Kristy saying, "Take off those ridiculous shoes. Come on, back to back."

"You're mad about Sally White," Lindsey says when we're in the kitchen.

I sigh. "No. Although the headache she gives me is irritating," I reply, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead. "I wanted to ask you something."

"And I wanted to show you something!" Lindsey exclaims. "You won't believe the new injustice George and Sadie are heaping upon me!" Lindsey runs to a cabinet by the sink and comes back with a clear plastic jar. It has a blue top.

"What is that?" I ask.

"A pill crusher! George and Sadie have it in their heads that I'm not taking my medication. So, Sunday afternoon, Sadie goes to the pharmacy and buys this! The pharmacist told her it's okay to crush my medication. Now every morning and every night, she's crushing my pills and mixing them with applesauce. Then she sits across from me and watches me eat it!" Lindsey's waving her arms in the air. I really hope the door from the kitchen to the dining room in sound proof. "The pharmacist advised her not to tell me. She said I might throw it up then. Like I'm some crazy person who would purposely throw up my medication!"

I don't want to tell her that right now, she _looks _like a crazy person. "What does your grandfather say about this?" I ask.

"He's all for it. Sadie is my main persecutor, but George backs her in everything. It's like they're sharing the same demented mind."

I only know one person behaving demented right now. And she's standing in front of me, waving a blue-capped pill crusher in the air. I don't know what pills Lindsey takes or exactly why she takes them. I've always been too polite to ask. Lindsey refers to them as her medication and we leave it at that.

"Can I ask you something? Um, not about your pill crusher?"

Lindsey shrugs. "Of course," she says, sounding completely normal. She returns the pill crusher to its cabinet.

"You know about my argument with Greer, of course," I start.

Lindsey makes her lemon face. I know she's put out with Greer because Greer opted to go to Bart's Halloween party tonight. "Yes. I've only heard about fifteen different versions," she says.

I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Well...on Sunday, I was at Kristy's and she mentioned I needed to talk to you. Something about the softball team code. We were talking about Greer

and her fixation on my lack of a sex life."

The face turns sourer. "Kristy wasn't supposed to say anything! Implying to you there was something to tell is totally in violation of the code!" Lindsey cries. "_I _wasn't supposed to say anything. Telling Kristy was an accident."

I fold my arms. "What do you know? What's this big secret?"

Lindsey looks uncomfortable and folds her own arms. She stares over to the side toward the sink. "Okay," she says. "I'll tell you. But you can't tell Greer you heard it from me!" Lindsey sighs. "She never wanted you to know, but...she has a thing for Mick. She has ever since you first introduced them last spring."

My jaw drops. "My Mick? Mick Stone?"

Lindsey nods. "She had it pretty bad for him for awhile. She didn't do anything about it! I swear! Greer would never do that to you, Shannon. But she was really jealous. She told me that if Mick was her boyfriend, she wouldn't treat him the way you did. She said you were a cold girlfriend. And now she's mad because he dumped you. She says that since he broke up with you and in such a nasty way, now she can never date him. It would be disloyal."

I stare at Lindsey. Greer would _want_ Mick after how he discarded me? Discarded me like a wadded up tissue. Threw me away without a second glance. Greer would want that? As far as I'm concerned, Greer Carson can have him!

"Please don't tell Greer I told you," Lindsey pleads, pressing her palms together.

"I won't," I promise, unfolding my arms. "I've already moved on. My new boyfriend is _much_ better than Mick Stone."

I know I'm still scowling when I follow Lindsey back into the dining room. Our friends (and Sally) are still hovering by the buffet. Ross Brown has arrived in my absence. To my displeasure, he's not talking to Meg, but rather to Kristy. She's holding a plate of food. Her wig is in the spinach dip.

"Hi Shannon," Ross greets me with a grin. I hope that whatever attraction he felt toward me has passed. "Thanks for inviting me. This is a nice party."

Sally raises an eyebrow. "It's a bunch of fifty-year-old professors in tweed coats and orthopedic shoes. There are only four people actually wearing Halloween costumes and they're standing right here."

Ross gives Sally a funny look, then says, "Uh, the food looks good."

"Ross, this is Lindsey Dupree. This is her house," I introduce them. "And of course, you know Kristy, Abby, and Meg." I give Meg a gentle nudge forward with my elbow. I purposely don't introduce Sally White. "I'm glad you could come on such short notice."

Ross shrugs. "All my friends were going to some wild party at Austin Bentley's. I didn't want to go. His party's are out of control and I don't drink anymore. This party is more my speed these days."

The little warning bells go off in my head. _I don't drink anymore._ Never a good sign. Ever. I usually don't want to know - it's usually better not to know - but if he's going to date Meg, I have to be sure he's not already a recovering alcoholic or drug addict. "Why don't you drink anymore?" I ask.

"Oh, well," says Ross, looking embarrassed. "Last winter, I got plastered at one of Austin's parties and I threw this girl in the pool. She was drunk, too, and she kind of almost drowned," he explains.

Abby bursts out laughing. Some chewed bread falls out of her mouth. "That was you?" she exclaims. "You're the guy who almost killed Lauren Hoffman? Claudia told me all about that party! She said some cheerleader jumped in after her, but the cheerleader was drunk, too. And then someone threw a chaise lounge in the pool as a life preserver and it hit the cheerleader in the head!" Abby throws back her head, still laughing.

Ross looks even more embarrassed now. Honestly, Abby has no sense of decorum. "Yeah, it was kind of a mess. Can I get something to drink?" he asks Lindsey.

Lindsey nods. "Sure. The drinks are in the kitchen. I'll show you."

When Lindsey and Ross disappear into the kitchen, I slug Abby in the shoulder. Hard.

Kristy gives me a strange look. "What is Ross Brown doing here?" she asks. "Are you dating him?"

Sally suddenly looks interested. "You're dating the geek in the band windbreaker?"

I glare at her. "He is in the orchestra, not the band. And no, I'm not dating him. He's for Meg."

Now Sally gives me a strange look. "You picked her up a boy? Did you buy him at the A&P on your way over? Was he in meats or produce?"

"As much as I hate to agree with Sally," Kristy says and she truly looks sorry, "that is a bit weird Shannon."

"No, it isn't. Meg _likes_ him. Right, Meg?"

Meg shrugs, twirling her black hair around her finger. "Yeah. I guess. I like his spiky hair. I could do without the glasses though. He dresses nice. _Should_ I like him?"

"Are you taking a poll?" Sally asks.

"Yeah, really," says Kristy.

Meg shrugs again.

Lindsey and Ross reappear through the kitchen door, laughing and holding red plastic cups. Whatever they're laughing about, the discussion ends as soon as they rejoin our cluster.

"What's so funny?" Abby asks them.

"I opened the fridge door and - " Lindsey dissolves into giggles again without finishing. Ross is laughing, too. Meg's picking at the sprinkles on her cupcake.

This is not going as I planned at all.

Short of shoving Meg and Ross together, I don't know what to do next. I need time to think. "Excuse me, I'm going to run upstairs. I'll be right back," I announce, turning around and walking away, presumably to the restroom. Instead, I go upstairs to Lindsey's bedroom. I sit down on the bed beside Missy Prissy, Lindsey's ridiculously fluffy gray and white cat. I stroke Missy Prissy's head, wondering why I ever thought I could force Ross Brown to like Meg. Meg is a wonderful person, eventually, when you get to know her.

"You're completely insane, you know," Sally White tells me from the doorway. She strides in, leisurely, glancing around the room. "So, this is where Lindsey Dupree lives." Sally picks up the photo of Lindsey's parents off the dresser. "Oh, Starshine, I knew you had control issues, but really, picking out boyfriends for your friends? That is nuts."

I scowl at her. "Meg told me she liked him," I protest.

Sally scoffs. "Meg couldn't tell you what she likes to eat for breakfast."

"Did you follow me for a reason?"

Sally throws herself across Lindsey's bed, scaring Missy Prissy, who jumps up and hides under the desk. Sally doesn't even notice. "I just came up here to tell you that you're insane. Oh, and that you look like a fool in that outfit."

"Thanks so much," I snap, scooting away from her on the bed. "You know, Kristy's right. If you dislike us so much, you should stop hanging around. I know we're just big jokes to you." We're alone. I might as well speak my mind.

Sally picks up a stuffed white rabbit and tosses it in the air. "I don't dislike you," she replies. "I don't necessarily _like_ you either. But you're growing on me. Like a fungus."

If that came from anyone other than Sally White, I might laugh. Instead, I continue to scowl. I don't trust her. I will never trust her. "You certainly have a pleasant way of demonstrating your esteem for people," I say, testily.

Sally laughs. She's still tossing the rabbit in the air. "I attend two, maybe three schools, a year. What's the point in being pleasant? No one remembers me when I'm gone."

"We never forgot you," I tell her. "How you treated us. How you hurt our group."

"It wasn't personal," Sally replies. She sits up and swings her legs off the bed. "Are you pouting or returning to the party?" she asks.

"I'm not pouting," I protest, standing up.

Reluctantly, I follow her out of Lindsey's room and down the stairs. Halfway down, I spot Lindsey and Ross by the living room window. Lindsey's showing him something in a book. They're laughing.

"Well, Lindsey should be happy. It looks like someone finally chose her," Sally says, not glancing back at me. "Tough luck, Starshine." Sally strides away, making a beelinefor Kristy and Abby.

Meg appears out of nowhere and comes to stand beside me on the bottom stair. She's still picking at her cupcake. Or maybe it's a different one. Maybe she's eaten five in my absence. "It's okay, Shan," she assures me. She doesn't sound disappointed. "My mother would have been mad anyway. She detests Mrs. Brown. What a cow. My mother, not Mrs. Brown." Meg sucks some frosting off her finger and sighs. "My mother's arranging a big dinner for me to meet my future husband and his family. Maybe Price Irving won't be so bad."

I feel terrible. Maybe I am a control freak. I hate it that Sally White may be right. But what's wrong with a little control? I slip my arm around Meg's waist and together we walk across the room toward Kristy and Abby.


	18. Chapter 18

No one needs a ride Friday after school, so I drive straight to the Stoneybrook Public Library. It may be the start of the weekend, but I still have homework that's piling up. I've fallen slightly behind. Yesterday I had a long Honor Society meeting, then yearbook layout to complete, and in the evening, I went to Wes'. We ordered chinese food and watched a movie, one I already knew was safe for mixed company.

I stay at the library until five o' clock researching a paper on Catherine the Great for European history. My first draft is due Monday. Usually, I'd have finished days ago. There's simply too much going on. When I get home, I almost drop dead behind the wheel of my car because Dad's car is in the garage. The first thing that pops into my mind is "who died?" The same thing Tiffany asked Mom last Friday. I find Dad in the living room reading the newspaper, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He's still wearing his suit and tie.

"What are you doing home so early?" I ask, coming around to the other side of the coffee table, so I face him.

Dad lowers his paper. "I'm going out of town for a few days. My flight leaves out of Stamford at ten. I thought I'd come home early and relax for a couple hours. Maria's upstairs finishing my packing." Dad raises the paper and resumes reading.

I raise an eyebrow. "Maria's packing your suitcase?" I ask. I'd hate to think what Maria would consider appropriate Dadwear.

"I laid out everything first."

I don't recall the last time my father and I were alone together. I don't recall our last real conversation. Maybe it was in July. I think we discussed whether he should buy a green Jaguar or a blue one. He settled on a BMW. It's red. And now I stand before him and have nothing to say. What is there for us to talk about?

"Dad," I say, thinking of something, "the other day I was remembering that crush you had on Kathleen Turner. Do you remember that?"

Dad doesn't look up. "Sure do. She was quite the looker. She and your mother used to look a bit alike. What the hell happened?"

I'm not sure if Dad expects an answer. What the hell happened? To Mom or to Kathleen Turner? Either way, I don't have a clue. Dad continues reading and eventually, I leave the room. I find the mail on the table in the foyer and quickly flip through it. Bills, bills, bills. And a letter from Anna! I tear it open, nearly ripping the notebook paper it's written on. It's only a page and a half, much shorter than her letters used to be. I scan the letter quickly. She talks about a recital she's preparing for, how she and Adelaide were disappointed in the new Carson Fraser musical, and that Abby is very upset about SDS not making the volleyball playoffs. Nothing about her mother or the big secret. I'm disappointed. I write to her about it, but she never addresses it back. I slip the letter back into its envelope. I'll read it more carefully later when I prepare my reply.

I take the bills into the den and sit at the cherrywood desk. I open my household daybook and my checkbook. I pay the phone bill and the cable bill and the bill for our gas cards. I address them neatly and affix stamps perfectly straight in the little boxes on the provided envelopes. Lastly, I open Dad's credit card statement. Usually, I don't read the statements. I simply check the amount on the card and write out the appropriate payment. But the amount on Dad's card surprises me. I check the log in my daybook. The amount on Dad's card has doubled. And that's after the three hundred dollar payment I made last month. What has Dad been buying? I unfold the statement and scan it. A lot of charges at the Greenvale Country Club, of course. And a long string of charges at the Juniper Club in Stamford. The Juniper Club looks like a normal upscale bar from the outside, but even I know it's just a pricey strip club. So, that's where Dad and Mr. Jardin spend so much of their time. Golfing, drinking, and watching pole dancers. It's not like they have families or anything.

I don't finish reading the statement. I know enough. I quickly write out a check, record it in my daybook, then file the statement in the bottom desk drawer. If I still had any opinion of my father, it definitely would have lowered just now.

I find Maria in the kitchen, eating sliced pickles out of the jar. "Maria, that's disgusting!" I exclaim. "Is that your dinner?" Honestly, I can't leave my sisters unattended for a single afternoon.

Maria shrugs. "I like pickles."

"So do I. But not as dinner." I grab the jar from her hand and screw on the lid. I retrieve last night's leftover macaroni and cheese from the refrigerator and put it in the microwave. Then I take out the wheat bread and peanut butter and begin making Maria a sandwich. "Did you make sure Mrs. Bryar saw the check I left on the refrigerator?" I ask Maria.

"Yes. Cut the crusts off, Shanny."

"I will. And did you finish your homework?"

"Yes. Tiffany left her progress report for you on the table," Maria replies. She grabs a piece of folded yellow paper from the table and brings it to me, along with a pen.

I study Tiffany's progress report while cutting the crusts off Maria's sandwich. A-minuses in French and oceanography, B-minus in American history, C in English, C-minuses in algebra and gymnastics. I furrow my brow. How do you get a C-minus in gymnastics? I took gymnastics in ninth grade and even though I never successfully made it over the vault, I still received an A. Sighing, I sign Mom's name on the progress report. Tiffany and I will discuss this later.

"Mrs. Bryar brought us cookies," Maria informs me, holding up a paper plate covered in cellophane. There are five oatmeal cookies underneath it.

I give Maria a stern look. "Maria, how many did you eat?"

"Only two," she replies, innocently. She picks up her sandwich and bites into it. "I took some to David Michael Thomas," she says without swallowing.

I retrieve her macaroni and cheese from the microwave and stir it with a fork. "David Michael can get cookies at his own house," I tell her. I don't even ask why she insists on constantly referring to him as "David Michael Thomas".

"Yes, but look at what he gave _me_," Maria says, proudly, extending her right hand to me. On her ring finger, there's a silver ring with a blue and purple iridescent ball in the center.

I take her hand, studying the ring. I don't know what to say. "Um...what does this mean?" I ask.

Maria rolls her eyes. "That he's my boyfriend, of course!"

"Isn't David Michael a little young for you?"

Another eye roll. "I'm only seven months older, Shanny. Besides, I like younger men. Although, David Michael Thomas is very mature for his age. At the Creative Arts Faire, all my friends thought he was thirteen."

I drop Maria's hand. I haven't noticed a lot of maturity in David Michael - excuse me, David Michael _Thomas._ He's a mostly nice kid, even though he can be a jerk sometimes. I don't know how I feel about him dating my little sister. But then, I remember my middle school romances, which never had much romance in them at all.

"Congratulations, Maria. I hope you are very happy together," I say, kindly, putting away the peanut butter and bread. "Now did Tiffany finish her homework? Did she even start?"

"I don't know. She's been upstairs with Tyler all afternoon."

I drop the peanut butter jar on my foot. "What do you mean she's upstairs with Tyler?" I demand. I never even noticed Tyler's car outside. I must have been too shocked at seeing Dad's.

"She's upstairs in her room with Tyler," Maria says. "This macaroni isn't heated all the way through, Shanny."

"You know how to use the microwave," I snap, rushing out of the kitchen. As I go through the living room, it doesn't even occur to me to alert Dad. Would he even care? Doubtful. Besides, he's now watching _Body Heat_. I guess I stirred some fond memories for him.

Tiffany's bedroom door is shut. I try the doorknob. Locked. Unbelievable. I press my ear to the door. Silence. I begin pounding. "Tiffany Lillian Kilbourne! What are you doing in there?" I cry, still pounding. I jiggle the doorknob. "Open this door, Tiffany!" She's been dating this guy three weeks. _Three weeks._

After a long silence on the other side, Tiffany calls out, "Go away!"

"I know you have a boy in there!"

"You're not my mother!"

I might as well be. "I'm responsible for you! Now open this door!" I jiggle the doorknob some more, as if the lock will magically loosen on its own. "If you don't open the door, I'm getting a screwdriver and removing the doorknob. Then I'll be able to see exactly what you're doing in there!"

I hear the bedsprings squeak as someone rises from the bed, then the sound of someone tripping over something. Not a surprise. Tiffany's room is a disaster area. The lock turns and Tiffany cracks the door enough to peer out at me. Her hair is mussed. She's still in her uniform, but her blouse is untucked and half-unbuttoned.

"Are you trying to completely humiliate me?" she hisses.

"What are you doing in there?" I demand.

"What do you think, genius?"

"Are you having sex?"

Tiffany's jaw drops. "No, we're not having sex!" she hisses, angrily. "I am fully dressed, as you can see! Now we're busy, so please leave."

I try to shove the door open, but Tiffany shoves back. She's a lot stronger than I am. The door slams shut in my face. The lock turns.

Huffing, I storm down the stairs and out to the garage. I find a screwdriver in a dusty toolbox. Tomorrow, I'll replace Tiffany's doorknob with the doorknob to the laundry room. The laundry room door doesn't have a lock. I'll do it while she's at work. Dad's engrossed in his movie when I pass through the living room again. He didn't even notice Tiffany and I screeching upstairs. I stop at Tiffany's door before entering my room. I press my ear against it, then jump back, quickly. I'm certain I heard groaning. I grip the screwdriver tightly. What am I supposed to do about this? Kick down the door and stab Tyler Austen with my screwdriver? It isn't all Tyler's fault. Tiffany is as much to blame for...whatever they're doing.

Thoroughly disgusted, I stomp into my bedroom and slam the door. I take a deep breath. Then another. In and out. In and out. I don't have time to explode. I'm on a tight schedule and have wasted enough time as it is. Wes is picking me up at six-thirty. Picking me up here. At my house. I know it's risky, but he was beginning to ask questions. I've hinted that my home life isn't exactly stellar, but that isn't enough reason for him to never even see where I live. I decided tonight was the ideal night. My parents are never home (thanks, Dad), Tiffany is usually out with Tyler, and Maria doesn't ask questions. Plus, I don't have to worry about Kristy or Abby. Kristy and her family are going to dinner then bowling tonight and Abby left on the five o' clock train to New York to meet Mrs. Stevenson for dinner. Abby invited Kristy and I to go with her. Of course, we both already had plans. So, Abby took Greer instead. Greer and I still aren't speaking, despite Greer's attempts to convince me I'm being a ridiculous baby. But Greer and Abby have patched things up and I don't hold that against Abby. No one has to choose between Greer and I. And it is some consolation to know that Greer was Abby's very last choice. Meg and Lindsey aren't allowed in New York without adult supervision.

I change out of my uniform and into a dark brown dress with a beige floral-print. The short-sleeves are slit down the center and tie at the ends. There's a wide scoop-neck that shows off just enough. I slip on a pair of dark brown heels, then spray jasmine-scented perfume on my neck and wrists. I brush my hair and touch up my make-up. I turn in front of the mirror, scrutinizing my reflection. Perfect. I look absolutely perfect.

I poke my head into the hall. Tiffany's door is half-open. I'm much calmer than before. I won't freak out at her. I walk slowly across the hall and peer into Tiffany's room. She's also changed out of her uniform. Now she's in a jean skirt and pulling a red polo shirt over her head. Tyler is nowhere in sight.

"What are you all dressed up for?" Tiffany demands when her head appears through the polo.

"I'm going to a play with Lindsey," I lie.

Tiffany looks doubtful. But I don't worry. I know that even if she calls Lindsey to check out my lie, Lindsey will cover for me. That's one great thing about Lindsey. She's such an accomplished liar, she can join in on any cover story, effortlessly, without even thinking.

"I need to borrow your brown shawl," I tell Tiffany, crossing the room. I glance over at the bed. It's as rumpled and messy as always. No matter how much I plead and lecture, Tiffany never makes it. "Where's Tyler?" I ask.

"In the kitchen getting a soda."

I pull out a dresser drawer. It's a mess, too. "Aren't you the one always informing my friends that our house isn't the A&P?" I ask, coolly.

"Boyfriends are different."

I find the shawl buried underneath a wad of wrinkled t-shirts. The shawl is a bit wrinkled, too. I shake it out, hard. I don't have time to iron it. "What were you and Tyler doing in here? Please tell me the truth."

"Why are you so interested? Need a few pointers?" Tiffany replies, sassily. She picks a red hoop earring up off the floor and slides it on. She begins kicking clothes out of the way, searching for the mate. "We were just fooling around."

"Are you and Tyler having sex? Because if you are, you need to tell me so we can...um, talk," I tell her. I feel very stupid saying such a thing to my little sister. What am I going to say to her about sex? Other than "don't do it"? It's not like I'm an expert. Mom hasn't discussed the topic with me since I was thirteen. And it wasn't a very good discussion either. Maybe I could pick up some pamphlets at the Stoneybrook Health Clinic. Or maybe I could just send her across the street to Elizabeth.

"We're not having sex," Tiffany answers. So casually, like we're discussing the weather. She finds her other earring and slides it into her ear. "Not sex sex," she adds.

I look up from the shawl I'm still shaking out. "What do you mean...not sex sex?" I ask, slowly, filling the air with my dread.

Tiffany shrugs. "It's only head."

My mouth falls open. "Head?" I repeat, nearly choking on the crudeness and its meaning. "Oral sex?" I would shriek it if my voice weren't coming out in a gasp. "Tiffany! You are only fifteen years old! And you've only been dating for _three weeks_!" Is she insane? Does she want a bad reputation? For everyone to write on the bathroom walls: _Tiffany Kilbourne is a slut_?

Tiffany shrugs again. "I love him," she says.

"You hardly know him," I shoot back.

"I know him enough to know I love him. And I want him to know how much I love him. What's wrong with that? What's wrong with wanting to be loved?"

"Nothing, but you don't have to have sex to prove anything. Oral sex is still sex, Tiffany. Did he wear a condom?"

Tiffany scrunches her face. "Of course not. If I wanted latex in my mouth, I'd suck on the rubber gloves in the kitchen. Don't judge me, Shanny. I don't judge you."

We hear Tyler bounding up the stairs. When he swings around the doorframe and sees me, his ears turn red. Good. He ought to be embarrassed. I hope he realizes I know exactly what was going on in here while I was across the hall and my father and twelve-year-old sister were downstairs.

"Oh, hi, Shannon," he says, quietly.

I tilt my head upward and stare at him. Finally, I say, very coolly, "Hello Tyler."

"What took you so long, butterbean?" Tiffany asks him.

"Uh...your father...he was trying to pay me. I think he thought I was the paper boy or the pool boy. Or something," Tyler answers, not looking at me.

"I told you, he's an idiot," Tiffany says. "As if he didn't spend all last Saturday night with you. Come on, we're going to miss the movie. You can finish your soda in the car." Tiffany slips her hand in his and pulls him out of the room. In the doorway, she looks back at me. "Goodbye, Shanny," she says.

After they leave, I go back downstairs. I chase Maria out of the living room, where she's watching Dad's movie with him. I order her to take Astrid on a walk. After much whining, she finally leaves. Sometimes Maria acts more like a nine-year-old than a twelve-year-old. For such a smart girl, she is rather immature. That's why I don't allow her to baby-sit yet. Except occasionally for Emily Michelle. When Maria's gone, I hover at the dining room window. Finally, I see Wes' headlights turn into our drive. I rush out the front door without even bothering to waste any words on Dad.

Wes has barely opened his door when I yank the passenger side open and jump in. "In a hurry?" he asks, looking more surprised than amused. "Can't I come in? I'd like to see your house."

"No. Not tonight," I reply. "My father's home. It's not a good time." I leave it at that.

"Oh...okay. Sorry," he says, starting the car. I wonder what he suspects about my family. I hope he doesn't ask around. "Your house looks fantastic from the outside though," he tells me.

"It's a very nice house to look at," I reply, my voice colder than I intend. I bite my lip, so I don't say anything more.

Wes doesn't say anything either. I wonder if he still considers me intriguing. Or simply strange and frustrating. At the stop sign, he places his hand on my knee and smiles. I release my lip and smile back. We're silent most of the drive to Stamford. We're headed to El Sombrero, where we went on our first date. I told Wes it was our place in hopes he wouldn't find it odd that I never want to eat at restaurants in Stoneybrook. The three weeks we've been dating, we've eaten at El Sombrero four times.

Wes puts his arm around my shoulders as we cross the parking lot. "You look great tonight," he tells me. He leans in and kisses my left temple. "You always look great."

I smile and slip my arm around his waist. It's wonderful that someone finally notices me, notices all the effort I put into myself. Into everything.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," Wes observes when we're seated and have ordered.

I shrug and sip my diet soda. "I have a lot on my mind," I reply, nonchalantly.

Wes looks concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, I've just been having problems with a lot of people. My best friend. And my sisters," I say and take another sip, trying to appear casual, unbothered. "My sisters," I say again and sort of laugh.

"I'd like to meet them. Your sisters. And your parents."

I set down my glass and shake my head. "No, you don't want to meet them. Any of them. Especially not my parents. They're...they're..." I shrug and begin straightening the sugar packets. "I haven't met your parents either."

"Oh, well..." Wes starts, looking slightly embarrassed. "Someday."

"Is there something wrong with them?" I ask. Although with the way Wes goes on and on about them, they sound like the most fabulous people to ever walk the face of the earth.

"Is there something wrong with yours?"

"Yes."

Wes laughs. "Well, there's not really anything wrong with mine. I mean, you've seen my dad's commercials, so you know he has no shame. It's just that...well, honestly, they don't know you exist."

"They don't know I exist?" I repeat and it stings when I say it, much worse than when he did. After all he told me about his parents, I assumed he told them all about me, too.

"Uh, it's nothing personal," Wes assures me. "I know that sounds lame. But it really isn't personal. My parents can be a little overbearing. I prefer to keep my private life, uh, private. Otherwise, they'll badger me until I go crazy."

"Oh, I understand," I reply, even though I'm still a little hurt. I shouldn't be. I have no right to that. And really, I should only feel relief. The Ellenburgs don't know about me, which means they can't blow my cover. Wes' mother and Mick's grandmother work together at the Greenvale Historical Society. She would surely find me out.

"You're upset."

I shake my head. "No, really, I'm not. My parents don't know about you either. For other reasons. They're so disinterested in my personal life that it's a waste of valuable time to even bother speaking to them. It's best this way. Our little secret." I smile and place my hand over his.

Wes smiles back. "My parents would like you a lot."

I might as well be honest. "All my mom would care about is how much money you make. My dad would only notice you if you made him a martini. Oh, look, here comes our food." I focus on shuffling around our glasses and the chips and salsa.

"I'm sorry, Shannon," Wes tells me when the waiter has left us with our dinners. "You know, I've wondered why you stayed in Stoneybrook for college. You don't seem, uh, very happy here."

I concentrate on spreading sour cream over my flour tostada, considering what words to choose. I've never mentioned Wellesley to him. Or Amherst or Brown. He doesn't know that this time next year I will be elsewhere, far away, living a new life. A better life. "I'm needed at home," I explain, simply. "I have to run the house. Pay the bills, pay the housekeeper, buy the groceries, pick up the dry cleaning, take care of my sisters."

Wes raises his eyebrows. "That's a lot of responsibility."

I shrug. "I don't mind," I reply, even though I sometimes do.

Wes drops the subject. That's something I like about him. He doesn't push me farther than I desire to be pushed.

After dinner, Wes and I are crossing the parking lot to Wes' car with our arms around each others' waists. It's a beautiful night, not too cold or too breezy. Perfect. I often forget how it feels to be so content.

"What would you like to do now?" Wes asks.

I rest my head against his shoulder. "Let's just go back to your apartment," I suggest. We spend a lot of time at Wes' apartment now. He doesn't seem to mind.

There's no traffic back to Stoneybrook. It's a quiet, relaxing drive. I wish all my time could be spent with Wes. I'm much happier when I am with him. When we're walking up to his apartment, I can hear his neighbors screaming. But not their usual angry screams. "Your neighbors are making up again," I observe as Wes unlocks the door.

Wes sighs. "Yes. And the guy upstairs has his terrors this weekend. They've already thrown a potato at me from their balcony. I can't wait to move."

I giggle as I step into the apartment. Darth Vader, Wes' ridiculously named cat, is waiting on the television set beside the front door. She hisses, as usual, when she sees me and swipes at my arm. She was only expecting Wes.

"Poor Darth," Wes says, plucking her off the television set. "She's jealous." Wes carries her off into the kitchen and actually gets her a bowl of ice cream. Ice cream for a cat. Wes' attachment to his cat continues to mildly disturb me. But no one is perfect.

I sit down on the couch and soon Wes joins me, putting his arms around me and leaning in for a kiss. I think this is why Wes doesn't mind spending so much time here. I wrap my arms around his neck and lower backward onto the couch, pulling Wes on top of me. He kisses my neck. Sometimes I worry things are moving too fast, steadily spiraling from my control. I was never like this with Mick. But this isn't a high school relationship and Wes isn't a hormone-crazed teenager. This is a mature, adult relationship.

Wes moves his lips back to mine, kisses me, deep and penetrating. He's suggested before that I be on top, but this is how I like to be with Wes, feeling his weight on me. I feel safe, protected. I like how that feels, how it feels to be so close to someone. Finally.

I told him I'm a virgin. He didn't seem surprised. He didn't seem excited either, which I assume is a good thing. He asks "is this okay?" a lot and I like the way he whispers it in my ear, soft and huskily. I think I might say yes to anything asked in that voice. I am not a cold girlfriend. Greer is wrong about me.

"Is this okay?" Wes whispers, untying the loose knots on my sleeves.

"Yes," I whisper back and he pushes down one of the sleeves and kisses my shoulder.

Wes pushes down the other sleeve and peppers kisses all along my collarbone, then he pushes my dress down further, down to my waist, revealing my breasts in their black lace bra. "Is this okay?" he asks and kisses my chest.

I start to say no. I start to protest. _This is too fast, Wes, please stop._ But I don't say anything, not anything but yes.

Wes cups my breasts and I feel the heat of his hands through the black lace. I raise my head, kissing his lips, sliding my tongue against his. I reach around my back to the bra strap and begin unhooking it. What am I doing? _What am I doing?_

We're interrupted by a loud crash upstairs. A crash of shattering glass and a heavy thud and a high-pitched shriek. Wes pulls back, startled. "Those kids!" he groans and climbs off of me. He straightens his sweater and smoothes his hair. "I'll go make sure everything's all right," he says, walking to the front door.

"Okay," I reply, sitting up and re-hooking my bra. Then I pull my dress back up and attempt to re-tie my sleeves. It's impossible without the dress off. I hear Wes' footsteps on the stairs, then him knocking on the door upstairs. It opens. Then footsteps on the ceiling, some heavy like men's and some lighter and faster like children's. Something moves across the ceiling. Another thud.

When Wes returns, he's shaking his head. "Well, upstairs guy owes the apartment complex a new window," he tells me, shutting and locking the front door. "His refrigerator just went through it."

I gape at Wes and try not to laugh. "The refrigerator went through the window?" I repeat.

"I don't know how it happened. Upstairs guy couldn't explain it either."

I laugh. "Do you actually know any of your neighbors names?"

Wes taps his finger against his chin, thinking. "Uh...no," he finally replies. He laughs and sits down beside me. He takes my hand, strokes it with his thumb. "I guess that kind of ruined the mood," he says.

"I guess," I agree.

"Shannon, can I tell you something?" Wes asks. He's looking at my hand, not at me.

I get this odd, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. "Of course," I say, quietly.

"I know we've only been dating for three weeks. And we really don't know each other very well. I mean, I _feel_ like I've known you forever. You're wonderful and smart and beautiful. Please don't freak out, Shannon, but," Wes looks up from my hand and into my eyes, "I think I love you."

I almost freak out.

I am at a loss. I watch him watch me, gauging my reaction. His thumb still strokes my hand. I don't remember when someone last said they loved me. Years ago maybe my parents did. I don't remember when I last said it to anyone. Years ago maybe to my parents. It's strange hearing the words. Strange and sort of warm. I'd like to hear them again. Over and over, repeated on loop in my ear.

"I love you, too," I reply. It feels wonderful to say, even though I'm not certain I mean it.


	19. Chapter 19

"What do you mean he loves you?" Anna demands.

A giggle escapes my lips. "What do you mean what do I mean?" I ask and giggle again. It's Saturday, late morning, and I'm stretched across my bed, talking on the phone to Anna. She's at school, of course. I've been calling her all day. It took forever for someone to track her down.

"You sound..._giddy_," Anna says, disdainfully. "Are you completely off your nut?"

I stop giggling and roll onto my back. "I'm happy, Anna. How often am I truly and totally happy?"

"Never," Anna replies. She pauses. "You don't think it's weird? Shannon, you've been dating this guy for three weeks and already he loves you? Are you sure he's not insane? He could be a psychopath. You don't know."

"Because someone would have to be insane to love me?" I demand.

"Of course not! But honestly, Shannon! Are you sure he's sincere? Maybe he's just trying to get you to sleep with him. You told him you're a virgin? I heard some guys like deflowering virgins."

"Wes isn't like that," I argue, sitting up. I kick my pillow. Anna doesn't understand. She doesn't understand at all. "Wes is practically perfect."

"No one's perfect, Shannon."

I sigh, leaning against the wall. My earlier happiness has quickly subsided. "Okay, he isn't perfect," I relent. "He is extremely disorganized. I don't know how he gets anything finished on time. He's obsessed with his cat. _That's_ a little weird. He's always telling me stories about the cat. And the cat hates me. I think it's mentally disturbed. He's also really close to his parents, but I haven't met them, so I don't know if he's overly-attached or not." I pause for a breath and it occurs to me that I've made Wes sound much less than perfect. Like a cat-crazed slob and mama's boy. That isn't Wes at all. "But his good points far outweigh his imperfections," I assure Anna. I list for her all the wonderful things about Wes, how he is thoughtful and gentle and funny in a sort of dorky way, and he understand me, and apparently loves me. "What's wrong with wanting to be loved?" I ask Anna.

"I love you, Shannon," she replies.

"That isn't the same."

Anna's silent on her end. In the background, I hear girls running down the hallway, calling out and laughing. There's only one phone on the floor of Anna's dorm. It's in the center of the hallway. I always wonder if other girls are hanging around, listening in on Anna's side of the conversation. "Shannon," she says, breaking her silence. "I think it's time to bail out. You're in over your head. This isn't simply running around, having a good time anymore. This guy is obviously looking for a serious relationship. And he's moving at breakneck speed. Next week, he'll be asking you to move in. He's probably already put a down payment on a diamond engagement ring for Christmas!"

"I'm ready for a serious relationship," I protest.

Anna sighs, exasperated. "You're seventeen-years-old, Shannon. You aren't ready for a serious anything. Plus, you are _lying_ to him."

"Not about the things that count."

"There's no talking to you, is there?" Anna says with another sigh. Anna can be so melodramatic.

"Is there any talking to you?" I reply in a slightly challenging tone. "Have you spoken to your mother lately?"

"We weren't talking about me!" Anna snaps, voice rising.

"You need to tell your mother the truth."

"And you need to tell Wes the truth."

We are silent.

My breath is heavy in the receiver, heavy like Anna's on the other end. "I'm sorry, Anna," I say and I am.

"I'm sorry, too," she replies, much quieter than before. "I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want you making any regrettable mistakes. No more than you've already made."

No one ever worries about me. "I know you are," I tell Anna. "I'm happy right now. Isn't that enough?"

Anna doesn't answer. I hear whispering on her end and her hand sliding over the receiver. More muffled whispers, then Anna comes back on the line. "My time's up, Shannon. Someone else needs the phone," she says. "Please be careful."

"I'm always careful," I assure her. "Please come home soon."

Anna and I hang up. I lay back on my bed, stretch out my legs so my feet press against the wall. Thanksgiving. That's when Anna claims she'll be back. Maybe. _I'll be back for Thanksgiving. Maybe. _Almost three weeks. That's the best she can promise me. And her promise includes a "maybe".

* * *

At one o' clock, I walk over to Kristy's. She called earlier and informed me today was a day for everyone to hang out and we would hang out in her room since that's the only place we ever hang out. She didn't invite Greer. She made a point to tell me that. Kristy hasn't forgiven Greer either.

Lindsey's just pulled into the driveway when I reach Kristy's side of the street. Now that Lindsey's finally off grounding, she has her car back, as well as her television and phone. Lindsey climbs out of the car wearing a mid-calf gray skirt and powder blue sweater set.

"Classy," I tell her, stopping beside her car.

Lindsey slams the car door, then turns around to face me. She's wearing her sour lemon expression. "I _know_," she says, irritably. "I look like a moron. I didn't have time to go home and change. I know how Kristy is whenever anyone's late. I had to go to Shabbat services with Sadie and George. Of course, Sadie can't attend the synagogue in Stoneybrook. No, we have to go all the way to Stamford because it's a _conservative_ synagogue. I said to her, 'Sadie, how conservative can you really be? You married a Methodist!' Doesn't that make her a bad Jew? Of course, she doesn't agree. She just says to be quiet and enjoy listening to Rabbi Bernstein drone on for three hours. _Three hours._ For some reason, Sadie and George think that's a _fabulous_ way to spend Saturday morning. And then tomorrow, I have to get up and do it all over again at First Methodist with George. Because we can't just go to one religious service a week. No, we have to be _freaks._"

I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. Lindsey talks so fast I don't catch half of what she says. Dear Lord. It's starting again. It's just like all the other times. When was the last time? The last time she was really bad? Tenth grade. Spring of tenth grade. Kristy was persecuting her then.

"Are you taking your medication?" I ask, briskly.

"Of course!" Lindsey snaps. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

If she's taking her medication, shouldn't she be acting, well, normal? "Did you see Dr. Petrinski yesterday?" I ask.

"Yes. She's screwing with my medication again. Everyone's always screwing with my medication," Lindsey says, tossing her braid over her shoulder. "I'm not sleeping well lately. I think it's because everyone's always on my case. You know how Sadie and George nag me. They're always breathing down my neck. Yesterday, I went to the mall and I saw these shoes and..."

Lindsey talks the entire way into the house and up the stairs.

Kristy and Abby are in Kristy's bedroom, sitting side by side on the bed, propped up against some pillows. They stop talking as soon as Lindsey and I enter. Abby's scowling.

"What's wrong?" I ask, although it's not unusual these days for Abby to be upset. I sit down in Kristy's desk chair. It's soft brown leather. I lean back and prop my feet on an overturned laundry basket. Lindsey flops down across the room in Kristy's old beat up recliner. Thankfully, she's stopped chattering incessantly.

Abby continues scowling. "Greer Carson," she spits out.

Of course.

"What has Greer done now?" I sigh.

Abby sits up straighter and wraps her arms around her knees. She sighs, heavier than I. "First of all, she brought Sally White along last night."

I smack myself in the head. Greer, Greer, Greer.

"Yeah, that's how I felt," Abby says. "I was waiting at the train station and here they came. Can you believe Greer invited her to come have dinner with me and my mother? What is wrong with Greer these days?"

"I told you, you should have refused to let her come," Kristy says.

"What was I going to do? Throw Sally from the train? Tempting, I know, but not exactly legal," Abby replies. "So, we're on the train for fifteen minutes and Greer picks up a guy. Some college guy going home from UConn for the weekend. So, Greer ditches us! I mean, literally ditches us! Not just on the train. She leaves Grand Central with him!"

My eyebrows shoot up. I glance over at Lindsey. Even she, who has the worst judgment regarding guys _ever_, looks shocked.

"She _left_ with him?" I repeat, eyebrows still raised. "Just ran off into New York City with some random guy from the train?"

Abby nods, furiously. "Yes! And left me alone with Sally White! I had to spend the _entire_ evening with her!"

Lindsey suddenly can't decide whether to continue looking shocked or turn green with envy. "So, what was it like hanging out in New York with Sally White?" she asks, casually. She would die to have switched places with Abby. That worries me. Worries me almost as much as the fear that we're embarking on another of Lindsey's "episodes", as her grandparents call them.

Abby and Kristy share a brief glance. Kristy purses her lips very tightly and looks disapproving.

Abby shrugs, looking a bit embarrassed. "Oh, well...it wasn't _that_ bad. I mean, with Sally White, it could have been so much worse. She called me Abigross the whole time, except when we were with my mom, and made snide remarks about my hair and my decision to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe, which Sally insists _isn't_ the coolest restaurant in New York - "

Kristy snorts.

"But well..." Abby continues, "it was mostly okay. We spent most of the train ride making fun of the other passengers. Then while we were waiting for Mom's assistant to pick us up at Grand Central, we were following behind people, mimicking them." Abby laughs. "There was this one lady with this enormous calculator. It was bigger than my head, I swear. And she was walking through the station, punching in numbers and bobbing her head side to side like this." Abby begins punching on an imaginary calculator and bobbing her head with a strange pursed expression on her face.

Kristy looks absolutely disgusted. "Would you please tell them the worst part?" she says, crabbily.

Abby stops laughing and punching her imaginary calculator. "What? Oh, yeah, Mom _likes_ Sally White."

I wrinkle my nose. Despite all her negative attributes, I consider Mrs. Stevenson to be a mostly practical, grounded woman. That she could exhibit such poor taste is appalling. Of course, she doesn't have the best track record where good judgment is concerned.

"Did you tell your mom what Greer did?" I ask.

Abby hesitates. "Well...no. She would have called the Carsons and gotten Greer into trouble. I mean, Sally and I were both pretty pissed at Greer, but we agreed not to tell. Of course, Sally said that when the police call in the Carsons to identify the Greer pieces in a duffel bag, I get to be the one to take the blame."

Startled, I tip back up in the desk chair, dropping my feet from the laundry basket. Why didn't that occur to me before? "Has anyone spoken to Greer today?" I demand, my heart starting to pound.

Kristy and Abby exchange another glance. "We called right before you arrived," Kristy says. "No one's answering at Greer's house."

"Greer's fine," Lindsey insists. She's reclined as far back as possible in the recliner, her blonde braid hanging over the back, gathering on the carpet.

My current feelings toward Greer notwithstanding, I fill with worry and dread. Greer has poor impulse control when it comes to cute guys. She's too trusting and cocky. What if something happened to her? And what would be the last thing I ever said to her? Oh, yes. It was Thursday, eighth period and I said, _kindly move your backside off my study table, _then I swatted her with my Italian book.

"Where's your phone, Kristy?" I ask, looking around on the desk.

"Who are we calling?" a floaty voice asks from the doorway.

Meg.

I spin around in the desk chair to see Meg enter the room. She's wearing a raspberry-colored tennis dress and a matching visor. She drops her bag and racket on the floor. "Sorry that I'm late. I know tardiness upsets you, Kristy. We went to the pro shop after my lesson to buy a new racket. Who are we calling?" Meg asks again. She walks over to the recliner and kicks Lindsey's right shin until Lindsey sits up and makes room for her in the recliner.

"Greer," I answer. I've just found the phone sitting on the windowsill. Before I dial, I spin the chair around to face Meg. "Have you spoken to Greer today?" I ask Meg.

"No," Meg replies and so I start dialing, as Meg continues, "She left a message on our answering machine this morning, though, while Penn and I were at equitation class. I didn't understand it. Something about bagging number six."

I press the off button and drop the phone on the desk.

Kristy looks horrified. "Greer slept with the guy on the train?" she exclaims.

"She had sex on a train?" cries Meg.

Greer Carson is the most irresponsible girl I have ever known.

It takes awhile to get Meg caught up on the story. Abby's version of events has slightly shifted now that there is no fear that Greer may be dead. She adds details about Greer's leather miniskirt and how she hung over the back of her seat, so Mr. UConn could have a perfect view of her breasts, which were barely covered anyway. I'm wondering what Greer was thinking, dressing like that for dinner with Mrs. Stevenson.

"This is disgusting," Kristy says. "She doesn't even know this person and she sleeps with him? Didn't she listen during sex ed.? She's going to get a disease. And I'm not sure I'll feel completely sorry for her when it happens."

"We don't have sex ed. at Stoneybrook Day," Lindsey points out.

"Maybe she's in love with him," suggests Meg.

Kristy shoots Meg an are-you-totally-stupid? look. "After four hours?"

Meg shrugs.

"I think Tiffany's going to have sex soon," I blurt out. I hadn't intended to tell anyone. It seems disloyal to Tiffany. She is my sister. I don't like others thinking poorly of her. But Kristy, Abby, Meg, and Lindsey are my closest friends. I would have told Anna. That's who I should have told.

No one looks very surprised.

"You mean she hasn't already?" Kristy asks.

"Kristy!" I exclaim.

"Well, it _is_ Tiffany," Kristy reminds me. "She isn't exactly...virtuous."

I ignore Kristy. "What am I supposed to do?" I ask, directing the question to everyone _but_ Kristy, who would probably suggest a chastity belt. Or a contract, like Meg's mother made her sign. "Am I supposed to buy her condoms, like I'm giving her my blessing? She's only fifteen. But I don't want her getting pregnant or contracting a disease."

"Giving her condoms would only make her think it's all right to have sex," Kristy tells me. She takes a tablet and pen off her night table and flips to a blank page. She begins writing. She's taking _notes_. "It's like giving her permission."

Abby shakes her head. "I disagree, Kristy. If kids are going to have sex, they're going to have sex. I think SDS should distribute condoms. Better safe than sorry."

"That would go over real well with Dr. Patek," I say.

Lindsey laughs. "My grandparents would pull me out of school. They're so old-fashioned. Send Tiffany to Sadie, she _loves_ to lecture about sex and self-esteem and body image," Lindsey says, then puts on a high, fake voice, "'Sex is a physical expression of love. That's why it's referred to as making love. Wait until you're married. I did.'" Lindsey rolls her eyes.

"That doesn't sound anything like your grandmother," Meg tells her.

Abby's looking over Kristy's shoulder at the notes she's making, but turns her attention back to me. "Honestly, Shannon, there isn't much you can do, except talk to Tiffany and listen. Tiffany doesn't need permission for anything. She has a mind of her own. And I don't think Tiffany would be exactly shy about going out and buying her own condoms."

I frown at Abby, even though I know she's right. Tiffany would have no qualms about purchasing condoms. In fact, she'd probably go to the A&P and buy them from Sam Thomas.

Kristy stops writing. "Okay," she announces, loudly, "I've compiled a list of alternatives to having sex. I'll read them aloud then everyone can add to them." Kristy clears her throat. "Number one, bowling."

Lindsey tosses her head back and laughs. "You are so my grandmother!" she cries. "Add 'join Shabbat Youth Choir' to your list. That's what I had to do when Sadie and George caught me and Karl Schmauder on the couch with my shirt off freshman year."

Kristy looks at her, reproachfully. "This isn't a joke," she says, seriously, then looks at me for confirmation. I shrug, even though Kristy and I made our own extensive list over the summer when Mick started pressuring me to have sex. I took it seriously then. "Never mind. I'm not reading any more," Kristy tells us, flipping the tablet closed and tossing it onto the night table.

I don't particularly care to discuss Tiffany and sex anymore. I turn to Meg. "How did you like your future husband?" I ask her. Last night was the first meeting of the Jardins and the Irvings. Mrs. Jardin organized a big, fancy dinner at their house. I'm sure it was way more pretentious than my mother's.

Meg's picking at her fingernails. The raspberry-colored polish is flaking off. Mrs. Jardin won't be pleased. "He was all right, I guess," she says with a shrug. "My mother wasn't as thrilled with him as expected. He showed up wearing a navy blue sports coat over a red Hawaiian-print shirt. And he was wearing these white wrap-around sunglasses that he wore all through dinner. My mom didn't like that." Meg chuckles. "But I like Dr. Irving and Mrs. Irving and their younger kids are nice. I'm sure Price is okay, too."

Kristy holds up her hand. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Price Irving? Your mother's making you date _Price Irving_? Ew!" Kristy grabs her stomach and falls forward, retching.

Abby looks like she just ate something truly disgusting. "Ew is right! Price Irving is a major creepazoid! And I say that having hardly known him!"

Meg shrugs. "I thought he was kind of funny."

It sounds like Mrs. Jardin has found Meg a real winner. I look over at Lindsey, who has been oddly quiet. I know that last night she had Ross Brown over for dinner. She ranted quite a bit to me before school yesterday about her grandparents' constant oppression of her freedom to date. They insisted on having Ross for dinner before Lindsey could go on an actual date with him. They've decided Lindsey has been too irresponsible lately. But Lindsey doesn't interject anything about her night. Instead, she listens to Meg while twisting her braid around her hand. At least it's not in her mouth.

At four o' clock, Mrs. Jardin calls looking for Meg and orders her to come home. I start gathering my things, as well, as do Lindsey and Abby.

"I have a ton of homework still," Abby tells us. "And Claudia and Erica are picking me up at six. We're going to watch the SHS production of _Dracula. _Apparently, the drama club built this huge, elaborate set and last night, Jessi Ramsey tumbled off the parapet and landed on Barbara Hirsch. We're hoping it happens again tonight."

Abby runs ahead of us, so that I walk Lindsey to her car alone.

"Do you think Meg's mad at me?" she asks.

"Meg?" I repeat, surprised. "No. Why?"

"About Ross. Did she actually like him?"

I remember Sally White's words, _Meg couldn't tell you what she likes to eat for breakfast._ "I don't think so," I reply, although with Meg, I never know.

Lindsey frowns and leans back against her car. "I don't want Meg to be mad at me. I mean, Ross didn't like her like that. He told me. It isn't like with you and Greer and Mick."

I purse my lips. I'd almost forgotten about that. Greer can sleep with any random guy she meets on a train, but refuses to pursue my ex and I'm supposed to appreciate her sacrifice. What a wonderful friend Greer turned out to be.

"Lindsey, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

I take a deep breath. There's no one else I can ask. "What was it like to have sex?" I ask.

Lindsey's eyes widen in surprise. "Oh..." she says, then frowns. "I don't know. It only took about a minute and a half. It hurt a lot."

That's not how Greer ever described sex. She makes it sound like something out of a movie. I've never really believed that. But her stories are all I have to go on, aside from things I've read in books and magazines. My mother gave me the bare facts and nothing more. Lindsey's never said much about losing her virginity that summer at camp. She never mentioned anything about a minute and a half. "Did you ever hear from him again?" I ask her.

She shakes her head. "No. He didn't speak to me for the rest of camp. And he didn't come back this summer."

"I bet your grandmother's right," I tell her. "You should care about the other person. You should be in love."

Lindsey stares at me, perplexed. "I guess," she says, slowly. She tilts her head to the side. "Are you planning to have sex?" she asks.

"No," I reply, which is the truth. I'm not planning anything. I'm only thinking.


	20. Chapter 20

"You want to do me a favor, right?"

I look up from my research paper on Catherine the Great. It's first period European history on Wednesday and our teacher's just passed back our first drafts. I've been rereading mine, absorbing all his comments with a critical eye. Lindsey must not care about her paper because she's turned around in her seat, elbows propped on my desk, chin resting in her hands. My eyes flick to Lindsey's research paper, laying forgotten on her binder. Lindsey wrote her paper on Lady Jane Grey, the Nine Days Queen. We both received the same grade, an A-minus. I'm dying to read Lindsey's paper.

"What kind of favor?" I reply, craning my neck to read her introductory paragraph.

Lindsey smiles, sweetly. "Well, you know how I haven't told anyone about your secret boyfriend?"

I stop trying to read her paper and look at Lindsey, frowning. So, it's _that_ kind of favor.

Lindsey continues, "Well, Sadie and George are being absolutely impossible these days, as you know. Ross has been over for dinner twice and they still won't let me go out alone with him. They say I've been a little too...uh, unpredictable lately. And Meg wants to go out with that Price Irving, but Mrs. Jardin insists on accompanying her on first dates. However, Price isn't fond of that idea. So, Meg and I decided to double date on Friday night, but..." Lindsey pauses and gives me another sweet smile. "Mrs. Jardin doesn't trust me and Sadie doesn't trust Meg, so Meg and I need someone proven to be responsible _and_ smart to come on the date with us."

I give her a doubtful look. "You want me to chaperone your date?" I ask in disbelief.

"Sort of. It will be more like triple dating. You can bring your new boyfriend!"

Oh, certainly. Wes would love to triple date with a bunch of high schoolers. Then I could explain to him why all my friends are in high school and then explain to my friends why I'm pretending to _not_ be in high school. "I don't think so, Lindsey," I reply.

Lindsey sticks out her bottom lip. "Pleeeease?" she whines. "You don't want Meg and me to have to triple date with Sadie and George, do you? Or worse, with Mrs. Jardin!"

"I just don't think my new boyfriend would have much fun. No offense. But he's...um, older."

Lindsey's eyes widen. "College?"

I hesitate. "No, out of college," I admit.

If possible, Lindsey's eyes grow even wider. "Shannon!" she gasps.

"Don't tell!"

"Of course I won't!"

"So, you see, I can't bring him," I tell her. Besides, Friday is Wes' and my four week anniversary. I want to do something special to celebrate, although we haven't made any definite plans.

Lindsey drums her fingers against her cheeks, thinking. "Well...Ross has lots of friends," she says, slowly. She gives me a pleading look. "It wouldn't be cheating. Surely, Mr. Out Of College won't mind." She sticks out her bottom lip again.

I stare at her, stonily, although inside she's wearing me down. A little bit. I suppose Wes and I could go out Saturday night instead. Lindsey and Meg are two of my best friends. And Lindsey hasn't spilled to anyone that I have a secret boyfriend. I sigh. "I suppose I could talk to him," I relent.

"So, it's a yes?"

"It's a maybe."

Lindsey smiles. "It's a yes."

* * *

Dr. Clark has the flu, so there's a substitute in microbiology. Since it's such a specialized class, there's no lesson. Instead we have a free study period. Kristy and I spend the period working on a new presentation for the Smart and Sober club. We want to have it ready for today's meeting. Sally White spends the period painting her toenails. She's sitting in her regular seat with her bare feet on the chair between herself and Kristy. She's stuffed crumpled pieces of binder paper between each of her toes.

"Maybe I'll join the Smart and Sober club," she says suddenly.

Kristy and I glance up from our outline and look at her, suspiciously. "I don't think so," Kristy says, tightly.

"Why not? I'm smart and I'm sober."

"You're also obnoxious and odiferous."

"There you go stinging with those words again, Kat."

I peer around Kristy at Sally. She has her head down, carefully swiping emerald-green polish onto her big toe. "I think you'd be more comfortable hanging out with Greer and her friends," I tell her with false sincerity.

Sally scoffs. "Greer Carson thinks she's badass because she steals her mother's cigarettes and screws anything that pauses long enough to screw her back."

I admit it. I laugh.

Kristy looks torn. I know she wants to laugh and agree wholeheartedly, but she'd rather lick the classroom floor than laugh at anything Sally White says. Finally, she reaches a compromise and simply looks disapproving. "I don't approve of Greer's extracurricular activities either," she says.

Sally chuckles. It sounds strange, coming from deep in her throat. "Maybe Greer could start a club. She could put it on her college applications."

"The Sex and STD club," Kristy suggests.

I laugh again. I'm glad we're at the back of the room where no one can hear us.

"Boy-craziness is so middle school," says Sally, still bent over her toes. "It's good that boys aren't exactly interested in either of you. You won't be ditching me in Grand Central for a hot piece of ass anytime soon."

Of course, Sally would have to go and stomp on any almost positive feelings I have toward her. I roll my eyes, even though she's not looking at me. If she knew about Wes, if she _saw_ Wes, she'd be singing a different tune. I smile smugly to myself, pleased in my knowledge.

Kristy isn't as satisfied with her own self-knowledge. "Hey!" she protests, whipping around to face Sally. "Shannon and I happen to be very appealing to some boys."

"Who?" Sally asks, raising her eyes.

"Well, Shannon's boyfriend dumped her," Kristy says and I narrow my eyes at her, "but I dated Bart Taylor and Karl Schmauder. And _I _broke up with _them_." Kristy doesn't add that she broke up with Bart Taylor in _eighth grade_. Or that, while she and Karl dated for less than a month in tenth grade, they never actually broke up. Kristy started softball season and Karl started the Spring musical and eventually, they just stopped dating.

Sally's still hunched over with her eyes raised toward us. "Bart Taylor, the guy who smokes pot in the girls' bathroom because he's banned from the boys'?"

Kristy's cheeks turn slightly pink. "That's the one," she confirms. She quickly shakes her embarrassment though. "I guess we're not all cool enough to be deflowered on the Italian Riviera," she says, haughtily.

"I didn't know anyone still used the word 'deflowered'," Sally replies.

Kristy turns to me and rolls her eyes.

I lean around Kristy again. A thought has just occurred to me. Sally White, as detestable as she may be, could be a wealth of untapped knowledge. She's been everywhere and she's done everything. She's had sex on the Italian Riviera. Finally, her annoying presence could prove valuable. "You've never told us about Mr. Italian Riviera," I comment, casually.

"There's nothing to tell."

I pause, thinking. Sally isn't like Greer, who willingly spills any and all details of her love life, whether real or exaggerated. For being such a braggadocio, Sally White certainly remains tight-lipped a lot.

"Why did your piece at the Creative Arts Faire sound like a funeral march?" I ask her, deciding on a different tactic. Honestly, I've been dying to know anyway. I haven't asked yet because I don't want Sally thinking it's acceptable to speak to me.

"Because a part of me died that day," Sally answers, not looking up, still speaking in that bored voice of hers.

In mourning for her virginity. How pretentious.

Kristy nods. "I don't know why any girl our age would put herself in that position. We aren't emotionally ready. It's too costly."

"It was costly," Sally agrees. "It cost me twenty euros for the penicillin shot."

Kristy scoots her chair closer to mine.

* * *

I call Wes when I get home from my French Club meeting. I've made a decision, a couple of decisions, but I can still change my mind. The phone rings three times, then his machine clicks on. I check my watch. He should be home from school by now.

"Hello, Wes? This is Shannon," I say when his message finishes. "Could you - "

"Hello?" Wes answers.

"Wes? Are you there?" I reply, then feel like an idiot for asking. Of course he's there. I'm not having a conversation with the _machine._

"I thought you were my mother," he tells me.

"I'm not."

"I'm glad."

I laugh and roll over onto my side. "Wes, I've been thinking about Friday night. I know we haven't made any solid plans, but I'd _like_ to do something kind of special. I mean, it'll be one month on Friday," I remind him, in case he isn't keeping track.

"Yeah, I know," Wes says and I'm pleased he remembers. "I was thinking, maybe we could go into the city."

"New York?" I reply, sitting up. Of course he means New York. He certainly doesn't mean _Stamford._ I twist the phone cord around my wrist. I've never gone out of town with a guy. It seems like a big deal. But I wanted special. "I'd love to go into the city," I tell him. "But..."

"But what?"

"Can we go on Saturday instead? I promised some of my friends that I'd go out with them on Friday," I say and I did promise. I promised Lindsey during French Club. "It's important. They can't change the date." Actually, it never occurred to me to ask them to. It's too late now.

"Saturday's fine. We'll be able to spend more time in the city. Do you have a restaurant preference? I'll call and make a reservation."

I'm not familiar with many New York restaurants. I rarely ever go into the city. "Anywhere is all right with me. Your choice," I tell him. I bite my lip, thinking. I decide if I think too long or hard, I might change my mind. So I plunge on. "Do you want to stay over?" I ask him. "In New York? In a hotel?"

There's a pause on Wes' end. "You want to get a hotel room?" he finally replies.

"Yes."

"Uh...sure. If you're sure," he says, although he doesn't sound very sure. "I'll make a reservation. If you want."

"It's what I want. I'm sure," I answer, more confidently than I feel. I can change my mind. Anytime. I can change my mind. Last year, the Smart and Sober club focused on date rape. One of the things we stressed was that you can _always_ change your mind. Anytime, at any point. And I can.

When Wes and I hang up, I sit awhile with the phone in my lap, staring down at it. I feel slightly uneasy. I want to be close to someone. There's nothing wrong with that.

Tiffany barges into my room without knocking.

"You're supposed to knock!" I shout.

Tiffany shrugs. "Kristy and Abby are in the driveway in Kristy's ugly station wagon. They said to get your coat and purse. You're going to Bellair's."

I don't have a choice? Kristy Thomas is so bossy. I should do my homework, but I suppose it can wait until later. I haven't been shopping in a while and I need something new for Saturday night. Not for Friday night. Anything will do for then, for my "date" with whatever goon Ross Brown finds for me. Quickly, I peel off my uniform and throw on a pair of jeans and Anna's Shetland sweater, then I run down the stairs and out the front door, calling to Tiffany and Maria to do their homework.

"Lindsey's meeting us," Kristy informs me when I hop into the backseat. "She wants to buy a new dress for her date. And I have to buy a birthday present for Nannie."

"I need to buy a new dress, too," I tell them, latching my seatbelt. "What are you buying, Abby?"

"Nothing. I'm just along for the thrill of the shopping experience," she replies. She doesn't say anything about my sweater.

Lindsey's seated on a bench outside Bellair's when we pull up. For some reason, she's still wearing her uniform. She does that sometimes. We park beside her car, then pile out onto the sidewalk.

"See?" I say to Lindsey, cheerfully, when I reach her. "Your grandparents aren't all bad. They're letting you shop unsupervised on a weekday!"

Lindsey rolls her eyes. "George has office hours and Sadie's at her AA meeting. That's the only reason they're not escorting me around town in chains."

"Abby and I are going to go look at real clothes while you two go buy your frou-frou dresses," Kristy announces when we step through the doors to Bellair's. Kristy is the oddest person to shop with. She'd rather split up than move together from department to department or from store to store. She doesn't see the beauty in browsing.

We part ways on the escalator. Lindsey and I get off at the Young Sophisticate section on the second floor while Kristy and Abby continue on to the "old lady section" on the third floor. I'm not really interested in the Young Sophisticate section. I want something sophisticated, but not _young. _Lindsey refuses to shop in any other section though. She says Profile, the really _nice_ clothes, are too expensive and her grandparents will murder her if she charges too much on her card. Again.

I don't see anything in Young Sophisticates. I browse halfheartedly through the racks while Lindsey fills her arms with skirts and dresses. When she's ready, I go into the dressing room with her. We take the handicapped stall so we have more room. I sit on the stool and patiently watch Lindsey try on outfit after outfit. She doesn't like any of the dresses. She finally decides on a plain white skirt, saying she'll find something at home to wear with it.

We take the escalator to the third floor to the Profile section. I immediately find my dress. The mannequin's wearing it. The dress is gray with tiny clear rhinestones across the bodice. It's spaghetti-strapped and the skirt falls right above the knees. It's perfect. I grab it off the rack and carry it to the register without even trying it on, without even checking the price.

"We're just going to Pietro's, you know," Lindsey tells me, leaning against the counter as the saleslady rings me up.

I look at Lindsey, puzzled, then remember. "Oh, no, it's not for Friday. It's for Saturday. My boyfriend and I are going to New York."

Lindsey looks very impressed.

Carrying the garment bag over my shoulder, I lead Lindsey back to the escalator. We're supposed to meet Kristy and Abby outside accessories. When we step off the escalator, Kristy and Abby are walking our way. Kristy has a Bellair's bag on her arm and even though she's wearing a ponytail, an amber-colored headband on her head.

"The headband's for me, not Nannie," Kristy says when she sees me looking at it. "Here's what I got Nannie." Kristy pulls a hot pink sweatshirt from the bag and holds it up for inspection. The front has a glittery bowling ball rushing toward glittery pins and the words _Rock and Bowl!_ in black glitter. "What do you think?" Kristy asks.

"I think Stacey McGill's mother ought to be fired," I reply.

Kristy sticks out her tongue.

"I thought it was funny," Abby says.

"It's hideous," Lindsey tells them as we step onto the down elevator.

When we're outside again, Kristy turns to us. "Let's go to Thelma's Cafe for pie."

Lindsey and I check our watches. It's almost five o' clock. It's almost dinnertime. What if Maria eats pickles again?

"I can go," Lindsey says. "My grandparents won't be home for another hour. Can we walk over to the pharmacy first? I have to pick up my new prescriptions. I forgot yesterday and Sadie yelled at me."

Reluctantly, I agree, too. We put our purchases in the cars, but decide to walk to the pharmacy. It's not that far down the street. When we reach the pharmacy, Lindsey looks over her shoulder and says, hesitantly, "Uh...you don't have to come in."

"Are you kidding?" Kristy demands. "It's freezing out here!"

"You aren't going to come to the counter with me, are you?"

Kristy, Abby, and I exchange a look.

"No, we don't have to," I reply.

"I need to check out the nasal sprays anyway," Abby adds.

Kristy cocks an eyebrow at me, but I shake my head. She remains silent.

Lindsey pushes open the pharmacy door. A bell rings as we walk in, causing the pharmacist to look up from his book. "Hello, Lindsey," he greets her.

Lindsey walks briskly to the counter, leaving us behind. "Hello, Mr. Bernstein," she says, then leans far over the counter and begins whispering to him.

Abby glances at me. "Bizarre," she says, quietly, then wanders into aisle one to search for the nasal sprays.

Kristy and I follow. Over at the counter, the pharmacist has lined up four prescription bottles, three small orange ones and a single large white one. He's showing Lindsey something in a pamphlet, talking too low for me to hear. I strain to catch a word and am a bit perturbed when I pick up something that sounds alarmingly like "audio delusion". I decide not to attempt to eavesdrop anymore.

Instead I move over from the nasal sprays and discreetly browse the condom display. I wonder if I should buy a box. Not now in front of Kristy and Abby. And not from that male pharmacist. Just the thought makes me embarrassed. But maybe later. Somewhere else.

Kristy comes to stand beside me. "We should buy a box for Greer," she says. "We could tape them to the hood of her Miata."

Abby sidles up on Kristy's other side. "Greer's on the pill. Everyone knows that. She told anyone who would listen when Mrs. Carson took her to the gynecologist."

Kristy plucks a box from the rack and holds it up for Abby to see. "Helps protect against STDs. Read the label, Abby," she says with mock seriousness. She flips the box over. "Ultra-sensitive? What does it matter?"

Honestly, I was wondering myself. Aren't they all the same? Is ultra-sensitive better than regular? Who am I supposed to ask? Certainly not that pharmacist.

"I don't know," replies Abby, "but these are all boring. None of them glow in the dark or are coca-cola flavored. Last summer, at my grandparents' in the Hamptons, a bunch of us blew up glow in the dark condoms and tied them this girl's car. We could do that to Greer. Where are the glow in the dark ones?"

"Why don't you ask the pharmacist?" I suggest.

I'm teasing, but that doesn't matter to Abby. She holds up a box of condoms and shouts, "Hey! Do you have any that taste like sardines or turn into hand puppets?"

Hand puppets? I cover my face and almost die. Kristy snickers.

The pharmacist stares at us. "No. This isn't a joke shop," he replies, flatly, then hands Lindsey a pen to sign her receipt. Her face is beet red.

"You're being really obnoxious," I tell Abby.

I don't think she even hears me. She's in the zone. That weird place her mind goes when she loses all semblance of self-control. She and Kristy are still giggling when Abby takes a box of lubricant off the shelf and holds it out to Kristy. "Here, Kristy," she says, "I lube you."

Kristy and I groan. Abby's mostly given up puns but she still randomly comes up with some truly horrid ones.

Kristy grabs the box from her. "Ew! Green apple-scented. Yuck! Why does it need to be scented? Can you imagine calling in and ordering this?" Kristy puts on a fake deep voice. "Excuse me, I need fifty more tubes of green apple-scented lubricant. It's selling like hotcakes! People can't get enough of it!"

Abby laughs. Despite my better judgment, I laugh, too.

"What are you doing?" Lindsey hisses, rushing into the aisle. She has a white paper bag in her arms. "Why are you hanging out in the contraceptive aisle?"

Kristy and Abby are laughing so hard now their faces are red. Kristy has the lubricant tube out of the box and is unscrewing the cap.

"Put that away, Kristy!" Lindsey hisses. "The pharmacists go to Sadie's synagogue. They'll call her and tell her my friends and I were loitering by the condoms! You're going to get me in trouble!"

"I want to know if it really smells like apples," Kristy laughs. She sticks the tube up her right nostril.

Abby and I are laughing. I shouldn't be. I'm a little ashamed that I am.

"What are you girls doing?" demands a crabby voice over our laughter. Kristy's eyes grow wide and all our laughter halts abruptly. A dark haired woman has appeared behind the counter with her hands on her hips. She does not look amused. "Is that Kristy Thomas?" she barks. "What do you have up your nose? Whatever it is, you're paying for it! Come here!" She starts clapping at us. "The rest of you - out! Shoo!"

Abby tears out of the pharmacy with Lindsey and I at her heels. Before the door swings closed behind us, the woman yells, "Lindsey Dupree, I will call your grandmother!"

Out on the sidewalk, I don't know whether to wish for the street to swallow me in my humiliation or to continue laughing. Abby's clutching her stomach, leaning back against someone's car. "Did you see Kristy's face?" she howls. "With that tube hanging out her nose?"

I decide to laugh.

Kristy flies out the door and behind her, I hear, "Please have a talk with your mother! Lubricant does not go in your _nose_!"

Kristy falls forward into a lamppost and swings around it, in hysterics. "Who wants this?" she asks, holding up the lubricant.

"I can't believe you, Kristy Thomas!" Lindsey shrieks. Her face has drained of color. I hadn't noticed.

We stop laughing.

"It isn't a big deal, Lindsey," I say, soothingly, suddenly somewhat embarrassed.

Kristy wipes a tear from her eye. "Don't worry, Lindsey. She's always cranky like that. You aren't banned from the pharmacy. That's the third time Mrs. Bernstein's thrown me out for shoving something up my nose. The last time was a tampon in sixth grade."

"She's going to call me grandmother!"

"She won't really," Abby assures her.

"That's an empty threat," Kristy promises. "She never calls anyone's parents. I heard she once sprayed Jessi Ramsey with a garden hose though."

Lindsey clenches her fists tight around the paper bag, crumpling it. "You are such a _child_!" she shouts and tears begin streaming down her face. "You've ruined my life!" Lindsey turns and races down the street, back toward Bellair's.

"Come back, Lindsey!" I shout.

"It was a joke!" Kristy yells after her, but Lindsey doesn't answer. She doesn't turn around. "It was a joke," Kristy repeats, more quietly. She looks at Abby and I, then sighs and marches back into the pharmacy. The door swings shut behind her.

Abby sits down on the trunk of the car. "What's wrong with Lindsey this time?" she asks me.

I shrug.

"Remember in tenth grade - "

"This isn't like tenth grade."

"She hit Kristy with a bat."

"She didn't hit her with anything this time."

"Yet."


	21. Chapter 21

"So, what kind of loser do you think Lindsey Dupree picked out for you?" Tiffany asks. It's Friday evening and I'm in my bedroom, preparing for my "date". Tiffany's perched on the edge of my desk, eating butter pecan ice cream out of the carton. She's already in her pajamas.

"Lindsey didn't pick him out," I reply, sliding into a pair of black heeled boots. I decided not to get too dressed up. I'm wearing black slacks and Anna's sweater again. I hope whoever my date is, he knows this isn't a _real_ date. "Ross Brown arranged it. It's one of his friends."

"Oh, yeah, that's even better," Tiffany says, dribbling ice cream down the front of her pajama top. "So, you're either going out with a geek from the orchestra or a dweeb from the golf team. Good times."

I pick up my hairbrush and roll my eyes. "You have room to talk, Tiff. It looks like you're ready for a thrilling Friday night."

"Tyler's having dinner at his grandma's," she replies, licking her spoon. "And Frannie's out with her older sister. She's visiting from college." Frannie is Tiffany's only friend.

"Well, you shouldn't be eating ice cream for dinner," I point out, changing the subject. "You're setting a poor example for Maria. Didn't you see the salad stuff I put out?"

Tiffany gives me a strange look. "Maria isn't even here. She's across the street eating with David Michael."

Oh. I hadn't realized. I turn away from Tiffany, continuing to brush my hair. "You still should eat a well-balanced meal," I tell her.

"Don't worry. I have big plans for a bag of potato chips after this."

I snort, but don't say anything. I glance at the clock on my desk. Ten minutes. I touch up my lipstick, then change my earrings from silver balls to little black triangles. I admire my reflection. I look very nice, very grown-up. I wish it were for Wes, not for some goony high school boy. Tiffany walks me downstairs and out onto the front porch. She straddles the porch railing, waiting with me, still eating her ice cream. Five minutes late, Ross Brown's dark green Jeep Cherokee pulls into the driveway. Lindsey's in the front seat. She smiles and waves. Meg and two boys are in the back.

"Is the young man going to come up to the porch and introduce himself?" Tiffany asks.

"Shut up, Tiffany," I reply, beginning down the driveway. "I'll be home around ten."

"Make responsible choices!" Tiffany calls out to me, then laughs.

I look over my shoulder and glare at her. She just laughs again.

Lindsey rolls down her window. "Use this door," she tells me, pointing behind her. "There's room." She smiles again.

I open the door and there is room - barely. Meg's squished between two boys and all of them are scooted close together to make room for me. I wanted to take two cars, but no, apparently Mrs. Jardin found that unacceptable. Why? I don't know. The woman's crazy. The boy behind the driver's seat has his arm around Meg's shoulder. Price Irving. Although, it's not the arm that clues me in. It's his outfit. White wrap-around sunglasses and a gray sports coat with a white collared-shirt and skinny black tie. His fair hair is mussed like he never bothered to comb it after waking up this morning. At least Ross and my date look normal in sweaters over polo shirts.

Ross turns around. "Hey, Shannon! Thanks for agreeing to come. This is Price Irving," he says. Price cocks his finger at me like a gun, making a clicking sound with his mouth. O-_kay._ "and my buddy, Paul Stern. He's your date."

My "date" looks less than thrilled. He waves half-heartedly, as I climb in beside him. He's slender with blonde hair, pale skin, and a nose that slopes upward like mine. A ski-jump nose, my friends call it.

I smile, graciously. "Hello, everyone. Nice to meet you, Price," I say with a nod. Then I stick my hand out to Paul. "Hello. I'm Shannon Kilbourne."

He looks at my hand, then at me. "You should know," he says, "Ross is paying me twenty bucks to go out with you, so please don't go falling in love with me."

I retract my hand with a wary look. "I won't," I promise.

"Smooth, Stern," Price says.

Meg giggles.

"You weren't supposed to tell her," Ross whines, backing down the drive.

Lindsey turns around and smiles at me. I return the smile, faintly. I will suffer through the evening for Lindsey. I will make the best of it.

"Where do you want to go to college next year?" I ask Paul.

"I'm only a junior."

I'm on a date with a junior? He's a _child._ I kick the back of Lindsey's seat. I'd kick Ross' if I could reach it. Lindsey doesn't turn around again. Instead, she talks solely to Ross. Meg and Price are only speaking to each other as well, whispering very low in French. Despite their whispering, I can make out most of what they're saying. It sounds like Price is mainly talking about himself.

"You should also know," Paul tells me, "that I'm missing _The X-Files_ to be here."

I don't even know what _The X-Files_ is. "I'm sorry to inconvenience you," I say, sarcastically.

"Oh, don't worry about it too much. My family tapes it for our neighbors every week. I can watch it tomorrow."

"I'm so relieved," I reply and kick the back of Lindsey's seat again.

"You know, I can see you doing that."

I cross my ankles and remind myself that I am mature. I'm not Kristy or Abby. I wonder what Wes is doing right now. I shake the thought from my mind. I need to concentrate on having fun. Or at least pretending to, for the sake of Meg and Lindsey. They are my friends, two of my _best_ friends. I can't ruin their evening just because my date is a geek. I attempt an actual conversation. I quickly learn that we have absolutely nothing in common. Paul has three interests: basketball, science fiction, and folk rock. His single ambition in life is to move to Oahu and work security detail like some person name Magnum, P.I.

I could be with Wes right now.

The parking lot of Pietro's is packed. It's the only Italian restaurant in Stoneybrook and one of the only really nice restaurants, other than Chez Maurice and the restaurant in the Strathmoore Inn. Lindsey told me Ross made reservations though. Meg and Price don't wait for the rest of us to get out of the car. They walk ahead, Price's arm draped casually over Meg's shoulder. They're still talking in French. Meg's wearing a very tight white dress, no doubt the work of Mrs. Jardin. At least she appeared able to sit comfortably this time.

When we're out of the car, Lindsey presses close to my side and whispers, "He's really not that bad. He's on the varsity basketball team _and_ the varsity swim team."

"Price Irving?" I reply, perplexed. He doesn't look very athletic to me.

"No. Paul. Your date."

"I hope you're using that term loosely."

Lindsey rolls her eyes, then hurries around the side of the Jeep to walk beside Ross. At least Lindsey's in a good mood and behaving normally. I was concerned that tonight might not happen after Wednesday. She was so upset. I called her that night, but she wouldn't come to the phone. Kristy felt so bad about what happened. We all did. Sometimes I can't believe how Kristy and Abby behave. And sometimes I'm so ashamed for finding them amusing. I should be too old for that.

Kristy spoke to the pharmacists. They assured her that, no, they weren't going to call Lindsey's grandmother. But it didn't really matter because Lindsey went straight home and told Dr. Dupree anyway. And Dr. Dupree didn't think it was such a big deal. And on Thursday, Lindsey was fine.

There are two sets of doors leading into Pietro's. Price opens both for Meg. Ross opens both for Lindsey. Wes always opens doors for me. Paul Stern? Does not. In fact, the second door, I have to open for _him_. He informs me he's a feminist.

Ross and Paul hate Price. Price hates Ross and Paul. I learn this when the waiter shows us to our table and they put on a big production about who sits where. Meg, Lindsey, and I stand off to the side, while Ross, Paul, and Price attempt to figure out how to arrange the seating so they don't have to sit next to each other or anywhere where they'll have to _look_ at each other. It's a round table, so that arrangement turns out to be impossible. We end up sitting boy-girl with myself between Ross and Paul with Price straight across from me. Our waiter already hates us.

"What are you going to order, Shannon?" Lindsey asks me, pleasantly, leaning around Ross.

I open my menu. "I don't know. There's a lot of great dishes here," I reply, scanning the menu. I love Italian food. We hardly ever have it at home. Unless I make Spaghetti-O's.

Paul leans toward me. "We're going dutch, right?" he asks.

I purse my lips and give him a withering look. "Fine," I reply, tightly.

"Good. Order whatever you like then."

"_Thanks._"

"The cheese ravioli looks really good," Lindsey announces, loudly. If I could see her, she'd probably be giving me a stern Be Nice! look.

Meg, who's seated between Price and Paul, studies her menu with a furrowed brow. "I don't know what to order. There are too many choices," she tells us.

Price closes her menu. "Don't worry about it, babe. I'll order for you." He's still wearing his sunglasses.

Paul laughs. "Oh, yes! I'd forgotten that it's 1958!"

As annoyed as I am with him, I can't be annoyed at that. "Order what you like, Meg," I tell her.

Meg opens her menu again. She looks confused.

When the waiter comes, Lindsey orders the cheese ravioli, Ross and I both order lasagna, then Price orders chicken parmesan for himself and Meg. Paul orders an iced tea. He already ate.

Price Irving monopolizes the conversation. He's extremely boring. He talks a lot about his car and his sailboat, and his position on the SHS golf team, on which he is allegedly the star. Due to Ross' derisive chuckle, I doubt this is true. While the rest of us sit in stony silence, rolling our eyes, Meg appears absolutely fascinated by every word that streams out of Price's mouth. I am embarrassed to admit it, but something Tiffany once said breezes through my mind, causing me to wonder if, perhaps, Meg Jardin could really possibly be dumber than a box of hair.

That's a horrid thought to think about my friend.

It's a relief when our waiter appears with our order. For Pietro's being so packed, the service is very fast. Maybe our waiter simply wants to be rid of us as quickly as possible. When the waiter leaves, Price leans over to Meg, who's just stuck her fork in her chicken parmesan. "That's a lot of food," he tells her. "You probably shouldn't eat it all."

Lindsey drops her fork. "That's a terrible thing to say! Meg, eat _all_ your dinner."

I give Price a disgusted look. "Yes, Meg, eat as much as you want. You don't have any more than anyone else," I say.

Meg stares down at her plate. "Well...it _is_ a lot of food," she says, then begins cutting her chicken into very small pieces.

I don't know what else to say.

No one speaks for awhile. Beside me, I hear Ross' fork and knife clinking against his plate and on my other side, Paul sipping his iced tea through his front teeth. The silence is unbearable. But not quite as unbearable as listening to Price Irving drone on about Price Irving. Finally, I tire of no one saying anything and turn to Paul. "You smell like plumerias," I inform him. I'd noticed in the car, but decided then not to say anything. It seemed rude. Now I don't care. Someone needs to say _something._

Paul isn't bothered. "My sister sprayed me with her perfume," he explains and takes another sip of his iced tea.

Price laughs. Not in a friendly way. "You're so weird, Stern," he says. He's somehow managing to eat with one arm still around Meg. He may be the most loathsome boy I've ever encountered. "So, check this out," he continues, smiling obnoxiously. "Three public school boys out with some private school fillies. Sounds like the beginning of a really great porno."

"I'm not a 'filly'," I reply, testily, stabbing a piece of lasagna.

"Yeah, shut up, Irving," Ross snaps.

Price just nods his head, still smiling. "Feisty fillies," he says. "It's probably for the best, me moving on to Stoneybrook Day girls. I've already dated all the really hot chicks at SHS. Hey, Blondie," Price tosses a packet of sugar at me. "Who do you know at SHS?"

I glower at him.

"Dorianne Wallingford's in my equitation class," Meg pipes up.

Price nods. "Yeah, I banged her last year," he says, casually.

Ross snorts. "That's really not much of an accomplishment."

"Hey, Braid," Price tosses a sugar packet at Lindsey. "Who do you know?"

Lindsey tosses it back and hits him in the face. "I don't know anyone at SHS," she says, even though I know she does.

Price turns back to me.

"If you throw another sugar packet at me," I tell him, "I'm shoving my fork down your throat."

Price smiles. "Who do you know?"

I chew, thoughtfully, and decide to humor him. "My friends Kristy Thomas and Abby Stevenson went to SMS with you," I say.

"I hate them. Next."

"Mary Anne Spier - "

"She cries too much. Next."

"Stacey McGill - "

"Oh, yeah, I banged that slut at Homecoming."

"Stacey McGill isn't a slut," snaps Paul.

I set down my fork and swallow. I've hardly spoken to Stacey McGill since the eighth grade, but I seriously doubt she's a slut. And I _know_ she has better taste than this mutant. "Excuse me, please don't speak that way about my friend," I say in a flat, serious voice.

Price grins and takes a long drink of his soda. He tightens his grip on Meg's shoulder. She continues eating, ignoring the fact that her date is a complete and absolute jerk. "She is totally a slut! She lured me upstairs on Homecoming night and unzipped my pants with her freaking teeth! That chick is crazy! I banged her for hours like you wouldn't believe!"

"I don't believe it," Ross replies.

Lindsey leans forward. "Will you shut up?" she hisses at Price.

Price shrugs. "What's a little slut talk amongst friends? So, I was banging that slut Stacey and - "

Paul lunges across the table. I gasp, thinking he's going for Price's throat, but instead he grabs Price's sunglasses and snaps them in half. He drops the pieces on Price's chicken parmesan.

I throw my napkin onto my plate and push back my chair. "Meg, Lindsey, we're going to the ladies room. _Now._"

Lindsey jumps out of her seat, but Meg glances over at Price, who's staring at his broken sunglasses. She nudges him and he waves his hand, dismissing her. Meg rises, slowly, and follows Lindsey and I out of the dining room. Behind us, I hear Ross, Paul, and Price begin to argue.

We walk through the lobby and into the hallway where the bathrooms are located. I push Meg into a small alcove. "Okay, my date may be an idiot, but _your_ date," I point at Meg, "isn't even human. We're leaving."

Meg looks surprised. "Why?" she asks.

"_Why_?" Lindsey gasps, mouth gaping. "Your date is a jerk."

"Weren't you listening in there, Meg? He's going on and on about banging sluts! I think there's something seriously wrong with him, aside from the fact that he's a cretin and a pig. _That_ is who your mother dreams of you marrying?"

Meg shrugs. "Well...after meeting him, she wasn't so crazy about him. You know what a cow my mother is. But she said I could date him if I _wanted_ to. It was _my_ choice."

Lindsey's still gaping at her. "You made the wrong choice," she tells Meg.

"I kind of like him. He's sort of funny."

I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. Is she _serious_? Maybe it's been for the best all these years that Mrs. Jardin not trust Meg to make her own decisions. "He's not 'sort of' anything," I snap. "He's not even sort of human!"

Meg lifts her nose in the air. "You can't tell me what to do, Shan. You're not my mother," then Meg turns and strides away, back toward the dining room.

Lindsey holds up her hands, eyebrows raised. I don't know what to say either.

Our table is silent when we return. Price has his arm around Meg again, whispering more French in her ear. Ross has our bill and is adding our shares on his hand. I could have given him a piece of paper. My "date" is busy making a sculpture out of lemons, sugar packets, and toothpicks. He doesn't even look at me when I sit down. Not that it matters. I take out my wallet and quickly count out the price of my dinner, plus my share of the tip. I can't wait to get out of here.

"Where are we going now?" Price asks when we leave the restaurant.

"I don't know," Ross replies, "doesn't Kevin Bacon need his costume back soon?"

"Yeah, you better cut loose, Footloose," Paul adds.

Price stares at them, blankly. He smoothes his skinny black tie, then turns to Meg. "I know I look awesome, babe," he tells her.

She giggles.

Lindsey pretends to retch in the bushes.

In the car, Meg and I sit in the middle between Price and Paul. We're not even out of the parking lot when Price asks, "Who wants to hear about the slut I banged on Halloween?"

Lindsey speaks without turning around. "Could someone please throw him out the window?"

"Would your insurance cover that?" Paul asks Ross, leaning forward.

"I'd like to see you try, Stern," Price sneers.

"Don't tempt me."

I rub my temples. "Will everyone please shut up?" I snap.

Price is quiet for awhile. It's a false sense of security he's lulled us into. "So, I was at this Halloween party - "

"No one cares, Irving," Paul growls.

Price turns and points at Paul, his arm stretched in front of my face. "You're just mad because you know I could bang your sister and Emily Bernstein at the same time!"

Paul throws off his seatbelt, hitting me in the face with the buckle, and lunges across the backseat. Meg screams and elbows me in the forehead. Paul's stretched across us, flailing at Price and Price is hitting back. The Jeep sways. Price shouts, "And Stacey McGill!" and then Paul knees me hard in the thigh. Lindsey turns around in her seat and starts beating at Paul and Price with her purse.

This is, probably, the worst date of my life.

Somehow, Lindsey and I pull them apart. Price's nose is bleeding. Not badly, unfortunately. Meg wipes it with a tissue, making cooing noises at him. She glares at Paul.

When his nose stops bleeding, Price peers around Meg. "Don't you have another sister?" he asks Paul.

I shove Paul back before he successfully lunges at Price again.

The Jeep screeches to a halt. Ross turns around in his seat. "Get out of my car, Irving," he orders. We're on Essex in downtown Stoneybrook.

Price doesn't argue. He opens the door and hops out, then holds a hand out to Meg. "Come on, babe," he commands.

Lindsey turns around. "Don't go with him, Meg," she says.

I clutch Meg's wrist. "Stay with us, Meg. We'll take you home."

Meg doesn't say anything. She simply yanks her wrist from my grip. Taking Price's hand, she steps out of the car and onto the curb.

Price leans back in, grinning. "No hard feelings, Stern," he says, lightly, "I wasn't completely serious. I mean, your sister's kind of hot, but I'd rather eat my dad's pistol than do that kike friend of hers." Price slams the car door.

Paul lunges over me. "You're dead, Irving!" he screams, throwing open the door. He takes off down the street, chasing after Price. Meg shrieks and runs, unsteadily in her heels, after them.

We sit in stunned silence. I have a hand covering my mouth, eyes wide in disbelief. I've heard kids use ethnic slurs before around school, always casually, slipping them into every day conversation, like they're simply saying "hello" or "goodbye". But I've never heard anyone say one so hatefully, so meaningfully. I'm speechless.

Ross looks over at Lindsey, then back at me, then opens his door and hops out. He runs off in the direction Paul and Price went. I look back, but can't see them. They've disappeared around a corner. But I can hear Meg, wherever they are, still shrieking.

Lindsey bursts into tears.

I unlatch my seatbelt and lean over her seat, putting my arms around her. I'm not exactly certain why she's crying. I'm never certain about anything when it comes to Lindsey.

"It's all right," I say, softly, soothingly.

Lindsey has her face buried in her hands. She lowers them. "It's not all right!" she cries. "Sadie's Jewish! That means I'm Jewish, too! If Meg Jardin goes out with that vile, despicable jackass ever again, I will never speak to her! Not for as long as I live!"

I rub Lindsey's back. "She won't," I promise. "I don't think she heard what he said. And if she did, she probably doesn't know what it means. It's all right, Lindsey. It's all right." I dig through my purse and come up with a tissue. I hand it to her. "He's just a horrible, hateful boy. You'll never have to see him again."

"I want to go home! I want to go home and be with my grandmother!"

The doors open and Ross and Paul climb back in. Both have blood splattered on their sweaters. "Price Irving's a bleeder," Ross explains, then looks at Lindsey. "Oh...are you okay?" he asks her.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. _Of course_ she's not okay. "She's upset," I reply, stating the obvious.

Paul leans forward and pats her shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll beat him up again on Monday."

"Yeah," says Ross, nodding. "We'll get the entire varsity basketball team to beat him up. So...uh...you can stop crying."

I roll my eyes this time. High school boys. They think their fists solve everything. "Just take us home," I say, sitting back and latching my belt.

No one speaks for the rest of the drive.


	22. Chapter 22

Saturday morning, I play the role of the good daughter. I drop Tiffany off at Washington Mall, I pick up Mom's dry cleaning, I make a quick stop at the A&P, and I even make an early lunch. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Maria appreciates my effort, even if she does whine about my forgetting to cut off her crusts. Mom doesn't pay attention. She definitely isn't paying attention when she sets her elbow in her soup and her ivory silk blouse quickly bleeds tomato red. Mom curses and shouts at me to get a paper towel. It's the first words she's spoken to me in two weeks.

"This is probably ruined," Mom growls, quickly unbuttoning the pearl buttons. She pulls off the blouse and tosses it to me. "You'll have to go back to the dry cleaners."

I catch the blouse. "I can't," I reply. "I'm going to New York. Remember? My study group and I are going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We're leaving on the one o' clock train. I won't be home until tomorrow."

Mom snatches back the blouse. "Fine. I'll take it myself," she snaps, throwing the blouse down on the table. She slams her briefcase shut. "Of course, now I'll probably miss my plane. As long as _you're_ not inconvenienced, Shannon." Mom's flying to Chicago with some of her friends from the office. A mini-vacation. She'll be away until Tuesday. Dad's also out of town. Somewhere. I don't remember where he went or when he'll be back. Maybe he didn't tell me.

"Good because I don't have time," I reply, haughtily. Wes and I could easily drop it off on our way out of town. But I won't offer. Maybe if she spoke to me like a real mother, I would.

Mom narrows her eyes at me. She swings her briefcase off the table and grabs the blouse. She's still glaring at me when she says, "Maria, run upstairs and get my suitcase and a clean blouse, please. Like a nice daughter." Mom gives me a pointed look, then turns away.

I remain stone-faced, standing behind the center island. I watch my mother march out of the room, briefcase at her side, ruined blouse in her arms. Her heels click on the tile in the foyer. Maria's feet stomp down the stairs, Mom's suitcase bumping after her. The front door opens and closes. Mom doesn't say goodbye.

It doesn't matter.

I pour Mom's soup down the sink, splattering the white porcelain like blood. I turn on the water and wash it all down. When Maria returns, I make her finish her lunch while I eat Mom's untouched sandwich. Then I send Maria upstairs to pack her duffel bag, so I can clean the kitchen in peace. While I'm in New York, Maria will stay next door with the Papadakises. Linny is a year older than her and Hannie a year younger. But Maria's friends with both of them. Casual friends, neighborhood friends. Tiffany's staying overnight with her friend, Frannie. I spoke to Frannie's mother to ensure that Tiffany really will stay there, instead of hanging around here with Tyler, unsupervised. At noon, Maria and I walk Astrid over to Kristy's house. Maria's paranoid about leaving Astrid home alone, even if Maria will only be a house away. The Papadakises have a small poodle and a cat, both of whom are overwhelmed by the sight of Astrid. After leaving Astrid with David Michael, Maria and I walk back across the street to the Papadakises.

Wes arrives for me at twelve-thirty sharp. I'm standing by the door, peering through the curtains as he strides quickly up the driveway. Ten minutes ago, I stood on the front porch and waved goodbye to Maria as she drove off with the Papadakises, on the way to the cinema. I don't have to worry about her popping over unexpectedly and discovering Wes. And I don't have to worry about Kristy or Abby either, spying on me through their bedroom windows. They're at the library. I stood on the porch and waved goodbye to them at eleven-thirty. I've covered all my bases.

"Do I get to come in?" Wes asks when I open the door.

I smile. "Of course," I reply, stepping back and holding the door open for him.

Wes steps into the foyer and looks around. "Great house," he says. "Is your family home?"

"No, my parents are away on business and my sisters are out. Maybe you'll meet them next time." _Or never_, I silently add.

Wes appears almost disappointed. "We should get going then. Hopefully, traffic won't be bad. I'll get your suitcase," Wes says. He picks up my suitcase from where I've left it beside the staircase. I grab my cosmetics case and garment bag and follow him out the door, flicking off the lights as I leave.

"You look very pretty," Wes tells me when we're in the car. "But you always do."

I smile, pleased. "Thank you. Wait until you see the dress I bought for tonight," I reply. The dress from Bellair's is in the garment bag, currently hanging in the backseat. I finally looked at the price tag this morning. It's a good thing no one ever sees the credit card statements but me. Right now, I'm only wearing a green corduroy skirt that belongs to Tiffany and a black v-neck sweater that Greer left at my house last month. "You always look great, too," I tell Wes, reaching over and fixing the collar of his polo.

Wes smiles. "I'm trying to impress you," he says.

"You don't have to impress me anymore," I reply with a laugh.

"Maybe on our next date, I'll show up in overalls and a straw hat then."

I laugh. "I take it back. Please continue trying to impress me."

Wes laughs and places his hand on my thigh. His hand is very warm on my bare skin. It makes me feel strange and tingly. And nervous. I wonder if Wes is nervous, too. There's an odd tightening in my stomach, sort of sick and heavy, like it's full of butterflies too bound up to properly beat their wings. But under it all there's something else, something almost hot with expectation. Of course I'm nervous. But I'm excited, too. Wes squeezes my thigh, lightly, then returns his hand to the steering wheel as we turn onto the Interstate.

"Did you have fun with your friends last night?" Wes asks.

I chuckle. "Absolutely not. It was horrible. My friend, Meg, has this horrid new boyfriend. He's a complete jerk. Rude, arrogant, crass. He spent the entire night talking about banging sluts, then ended the evening shouting an ethnic slur. Then he was beat up."

Wes glances over at me. "Are you serious?" he asks, incredulously.

"Unfortunately, I am. He was beat up right outside Burger Town," I reply. I reach over and set my hand on his knee. "The entire night, I wished I was with you instead."

"Really?" Wes asks, grinning. "I wished the same thing. I spent the evening grading about a thousand math tests. As fun as that was, I would have preferred your company."

"Well, you have me to yourself all day and all night," I tell him, then realizing my words, blush. I look out the window so he won't notice.

"Yeah, I'm...looking forward to it," Wes says, then clears his throat, nervously.

Still staring out the window, I smile to myself. It's cute how shy he can be. I find it endearing. And comforting.

Wes begins messing with the radio. He tunes it to the classic rock station. There's an old Billy Joel song playing. "This is our song," Wes announces, turning up the volume.

I look away from the window. "We don't have a song," I inform him.

"Yes, we do," he argues. "I just found it. Listen. It's about us. You're an uptown girl! And I'm a downtown man!"

I laugh. "Wes, you're from _Greenvale_. That isn't exactly the slums of Southern Connecticut."

"But now I live in downtown Stoneybrook," he points out. He begins drumming on the steering wheel and singing along with Billy Joel. He can't sing.

"You are bizarre," I tell him, still laughing. "You look completely normal, but you are a strange, strange man."

"What's so bizarre about me?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm disturbed that you know all the words to this song."

Wes laughs.

It's a wonderful drive into New York. There's hardly any traffic at all. Wes and I talk most of the way, except when he randomly decides to sing part of a song to me. He is a strange man, but in an absolutely perfect way. So what if he's disorganized and slightly obsessed with his demonic cat. He wants me and he loves me.

Although Wes is a terrific driver in Connecticut, he turns out to be a terrible one in New York. I'm shocked that we make it to East 87th Street alive. We park in a garage adjacent to our hotel. I shiver a little thinking that. _Our hotel_. That nervous feeling returns, but I don't allow it to rattle me. I smile at Wes, then step out of the car. I'm not exactly sure what to expect out of our hotel. I'm not very familiar with New York City. Mostly I've visited with Greer and her parents. They have family living on the Upper East Side, which is where Wes and I are staying. Our hotel is called The Franklin and it looks like any other building in New York from the outside. Inside, it looks like we've stepped into someone's home. There's a beautifully decorated living room and a library off the lobby.

"This is very nice," I tell Wes, setting my suitcase beside the front desk.

"My parents always stay here when they stay in the city," Wes replies. He rings the bell. "It's the only place I've ever stayed in New York. I thought it best to stick with what I know."

I glance upward. There's a lovely chandelier hanging from the ceiling. My mother would love this hotel. It's exactly the kind of place we used to stay when our family still vacationed together. I try to recall our last vacation. I might have been in fifth grade. We went to Atlantic City. Mom, Tiffany, Maria, and I spent all our time at the pool. Dad was very popular at the blackjack table.

The concierge appears and Wes signs us in. When he slides his credit card across the desk, it occurs to me that this hotel is _expensive_. It was my idea to get a hotel room in the first place. Maybe I should pay for the room. Or at least half. A bellboy carries our suitcases upstairs to our room. I get that little shiver again, thinking of _our room._ Our room turns out to be rather small, but the bellboy, seeing my surprised expression, assures me all the rooms are small. For what it lacks in space, the room makes up for in style. It's gorgeous with beautiful black wood furniture and tall floor lamps with lacy cream-colored shades. I glance upward again. Even the light fixture is gorgeous.

Everything is perfect.

"Which side of the bed do you want?" Wes asks. He says it very casually.

"Um...I'll take the left," I answer, lifting my suitcase onto that side of the bed. The comforter is gray and turquoise. I press my hand on it. It's down. Very nice. I open my suitcase and begin neatly stacking my clothes in the small drawers of the nightstand. A few things I have to refold.

"You're very neat," Wes observes. He's opened his suitcase on the other side of the bed.

"I like things orderly," I reply. I crane my neck around to see into his suitcase. Everything is folded, but not nearly as neatly as mine.

"Would you like me to refold those for you?" I offer.

Wes raises an eyebrow. "You want to refold my clothes?" he says. "No. That's okay."

I decide not to be pushy. I shrug, nonchalantly. "All right," I say and carry my garment bag to the closet and slide it onto the rack. "Do you need me to hang anything up for you?" I ask.

"Sure," Wes replies. He tosses me a navy blazer.

I shake it out a few times before sliding it onto a hanger. I smile at Wes as he walks by, carrying a canvas bag into the bathroom. I like this. Bustling around together, putting away our things. The last thing I take out of my suitcase is a white nightgown. I fold it, more carefully than usual. It isn't skimpy lingerie. I'd be too embarrassed to buy anything like that. Actually, I was too embarrassed to buy any type of lingerie knowing Wes would see me in it. Knowing that he would take it off. I found this nightgown at the back of Mom's closet with the tags still on. For as much as she paid for it, someone should wear it at least once. It's white silk, sleeveless, and snaps down the front. I set the nightgown on top of my other clothes, the slide the drawer closed. Then I shut my suitcase and slide it into the closet. I sit down on the bed. It's very soft. I feel warm and nervous again, thinking that tonight, this is where I'll lose my virginity.

"So, I was thinking," Wes says, coming out of the bathroom, "our dinner reservations aren't until seven. We're right by Central Park and a lot of museums. Do you want to go out? We're also not far from Madison and Fifth Avenue, if you want to go shopping." Wes doesn't look too thrilled about that last suggestion.

"Can we go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art?" I suggest. After all, if I really go, then it won't actually be a lie.

"Sure!"

"Great! Let me freshen up," I tell Wes, grabbing my purse and my cosmetics case. I slip into the narrow bathroom and shut the door. First thing I do is check out what Wes brought in. It's nosy of me, but I've shown a lot of restraint in not opening his medicine cabinet at his apartment. I look in the shower. He's set his shampoo and conditioner on the shelf. Paul Mitchell. That's a little high maintenance for a man, but I can overlook it. Dad uses this horrible perfumed shampoo from Bellair's, so I know it could be much worse. Next, I check the canvas bag Wes carried in. I paw through it quietly. Razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, a prescription bottle of migraine medication, vitamins. And at the very bottom, a small box of lambskin condoms.

The sight of them makes me blush, so I bury them back underneath the toothpaste and vitamins. I shouldn't be embarrassed. I've been thinking all week about having sex with Wes. I've been making plans. Of course he's had similar thoughts. Of course he's made similar plans. He reserved this hotel room, this beautiful, expensive hotel room, so our first night together is special. I shouldn't be embarrassed.

"I'm ready," I announce a couple minutes later, coming out of the bathroom, hair brushed and make-up freshened.

Wes hands me my coat, then we walk downstairs. Outside, the street is busy as we walk, hand in hand, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I haven't been in years. The last time was seventh or eighth grade. I went with Lindsey and her grandparents. I think we saw an Egyptian exhibit. I remember how when I was little, Greer and I used to pretend we were running away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art like Claudia and Jamie in _From The Mixed Up Files Of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. _We would go to my house and pack my suitcase, then over to Greer's to pack hers. I always packed sensible things like clean panties and a toothbrush. Greer always packed ridiculous things like hair glitter and a liter of grape soda. There's a pang of sadness remembering that. I miss the old Greer.

Wes and I spend a couple hours walking around the Metropolitan. I walk with my arm tight around his waist, my head resting on his shoulder. I push him into dark corners and kiss him long and hard, probing his mouth with my tongue. I feel a little dangerous. I feel a little naughty. I like it. Wes seems to like it too.

It's almost five-thirty when we get back to the Franklin. Our dinner reservations are at seven. Wes wants to shower before dinner. I lay out my new dress and my gray heels, listening to the water rushing in the shower. I stand back and admire my dress, then quickly slip out of my skirt and sweater. I slide the new dress up over my hips and slip my arms through the spaghetti-straps. It's a struggle to zip the back up by myself, but I manage. Then I slide into the heels and admire my reflection in the mirror on the wall. It isn't full-length, but I know I look wonderful. Perfect.

Wes wears khaki slacks and his navy blazer. "You look very handsome," I tell him, straightening his collar. Then I kiss him, lightly on the lips, so I don't mess up my lipstick.

Wes smiles. "You're beautiful. I'll have to keep my eye on you tonight. I don't want anyone stealing you away." He puts an arm around my shoulders as we leave the room.

Wes and I have reservations at the Four Seasons. It's funny because I told him to choose any restaurant because I haven't eaten in New York very often and he chose the restaurant I've eaten at half a dozen times. The Carsons love the Four Seasons. We ate here every time we came into the city. But I don't tell Wes that. Even though we have reservations, it's still a short wait for a table. When the waiter finally seats us and hands us our menus, I actually already know what I'll order. But I don't tell Wes that either.

"I think I'll have the roasted black bass," I tell him, after studying the menu for awhile. Or pretending to study it.

"That looks good. I came here with my parents over the summer and had the crab cakes. I recommend not ordering them."

"I won't then," I reply with a laugh. "Your parents come to New York often?"

"Yes. My mother loves the city, but my father hates it. But then, my mother hates Miami and my father loves it there. So, they compromise and suffer through each place for the other."

"That's really sweet," I say. My parents would compromise, too. Only they'd compromise by taking separate vacations. "It must be nice having parents who - " I almost say, _like each other_, " who are willing to make sacrifices for each other."

"I'm lucky. I have great parents," Wes smiles at me, sort of sadly. I know he's feeling sorry for me. "Well, they're mostly great. They do nag at me sometimes. About my love life, about my job. They want me to start the graduate program at Stoneybrook University in the winter. They think teaching wouldn't be such a bad profession if I had a master's degree or a doctorate. They're hoping I'll tire of SMS and eventually move on to the college level. I'm not interested."

"I think you'd be a wonderful teacher on any level. But I bet there aren't grades more difficult to teach than seventh and eighth grade. I remember, middle school could be a nightmare."

"High school wasn't much better."

I pause and take a slow sip of water. "Yes," I finally agree. "I'm so glad that's over."

I quickly switch the subject from high school to the Metropolitan. We discuss the exhibits we saw today until the waiter reappears and takes our order. We both order the bass. Wes talks awhile about his cat and how worried he is that the cat's upset about his leaving. The cat's alone at the apartment because Wes' parents went to Buffalo to visit friends, so the cat couldn't go to their house. And none of Wes' friends would watch the cat for him. Smart friends. So, Wes had to arrange for some girl from his building to come and feed the cat. As much as I like Wes, his attachment to his cat still sort of weirds me out.

"I heard on the radio this morning that the Great Blue Whales are playing in New Haven next month," Wes tells me when we're halfway through our dinner. "Maybe we could go."

I swallow my bite of bass and nod. "Sure. That would be - " I drop my fork.

Wes lowers his fork from his mouth. "What's wrong?" he asks.

I'm staring over his shoulder, across the dining room. "That man over there," I say.

Wes turns around. "What man? Who are you looking at?"

I don't answer. I rise and start across the dining room. I'm not even thinking. I've switched to autopilot. My legs are moving, very fast, crossing the dining room to the table in the corner. I stop beside the table. I stand very straight and still until they look at me.

"What are you doing here, Dad?" I demand in a very quiet voice.

"Shannon!" Dad cries and drops the woman's hand. She's young, not much older than me. She's very pretty. In fact, she looks like a young Kathleen Turner. "What are you doing here?" Dad asks.

"I already asked you that," I reply, coldly. "Who is this?"

"This is...this is Kathleen," Dad answers, flustered.

"Actually, it's Candace," the woman says. She holds her hand out to me. She expects me to shake her hand! "He just likes to call me Kathleen."

I refuse her hand. "Do you know that he's married?" I demand. "Do you know he has three daughters?"

She retracts her hand and fingers the gold chain around her neck. She looks over at Dad, uncomfortably. "We hadn't discussed..." her voice falls away.

Dad clears his throat. "Shannon...we've just met...Kathleen - er, Candace, is from an...agency."

My mouth falls open. Did I hear correctly? Did I understand? "A prostitute? You're here with a prostitute?" I gasp. I don't know how I don't scream it. "What do you do? Cruise the streets of New York searching for a hooker who looks like Kathleen Turner? You're sick!"

"I'm an escort," Candace says, irritably.

I ignore her, concentrating on Dad. "How can you do this to us?" I demand.

Dad glances around, ensuring no one's listening. He straightens his glasses and clears his throat again. "Shannon...you're old enough to know...your mother and I...we have an open marriage."

His words are lost on me.

Dad continues, "We'd lose a lot in a divorce. This arrangement, it's much easier."

Easier on him. Easier on Mom. Not easier on me or Tiffany or Maria. We're the ones paying and suffering and barely holding ourselves together.

"So," Dad chuckles, fakely, "what are you doing in New York City all dressed up?"

"I'm on a date," I reply and point, without thinking to Wes, who's turned around in his seat across the room, staring at us.

"Good looking guy," Dad says with another chuckle. He raises his tumbler of bourbon toward Wes and grins. "A little old for you. Don't worry. Our secret." Dad winks at me. "Why don't I pick up the check?"

"Don't bother," I sneer. "Enjoy your hooker." I turn and stride away, not so quickly, not so confidently. The walk back seems much longer. I can't breathe. I may pass out. I shouldn't be shocked. I should have suspected. I had wondered sometimes about him and Mom and who they are with when they're apart. And they're always apart. A mistress in New Hope or Greenvale would be one thing. Hookers who look like famous actresses are another. What kind of sick freak is my father? It becomes glaringly clear, as I cross the room, that we will never be the same. I will never have my family back. Whatever secret hope I may have harbored deep in my soul has disintegrated in an instant. Dad isn't coming back to us. He left long ago, checked out, and forgot us. And Mom followed.

"May we leave now?" I ask Wes, quietly, pausing beside his chair.

Wes looks at me, concerned and confused. "What's wrong, Shannon? Who is that?"

It's an effort to control my voice, keep it calm and steady. "My father," I answer. "And his hooker. May we leave now?"

"Sure. Let me find the waiter. I'll pay, then we'll leave." Wes rises and glances around, searching the dining room for our waiter.

"I'll wait outside," I tell him and walk away before he can reply. The cold air hits me sharp in the face the moment I step through the doors. I breathe in. The air chills in my lungs.

Wes joins me a few minutes later. He's carrying my coat and purse. He drapes the coat over my shoulders. "We'll take a taxi," he says.

In the taxi, we sit apart, silent. I stare out the window, gazing at the city lights. I turn to Wes. "What's an open marriage?" I ask him.

"Oh," Wes replies. "It means they're free to, uh, sleep with other people."

I fold my arms, holding myself tight. "You must think I'm very stupid," I say.

Wes shakes his head. "Of course not, Shannon."

In our room, I don't bother to hang up my coat. I simply drop it on a chair, then go stand at the window, staring out. Wes comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"Do you need to cry? It's all right to cry."

"I don't cry," I reply. I lean back into him. I am so lucky to have Wes. He is the best thing in my life. My parents don't care, they dismiss me, but Wes is here, arms around me, loving me. "I'm going to get ready," I tell him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

I take my nightgown into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I change, slowly, out of my dress, my beautiful, expensive dress that did not deliver the evening I desired. I pull on the nightgown, quickly fastening the front snaps. My breasts are nearly visible through the thin silk. I stare into the mirror, not really seeing myself.

Wes has turned down the bed, exposing its clean white sheets. He's removed his shoes and blazer, but nothing else, as if he suspects I'll fall to pieces in the bathroom and change my mind. He's stretched across the bed, but sits up when I exit the bathroom.

Approaching him, slowly, I unsnap the front of my nightgown, exposing my breasts. "You love me, right?" I ask him.

"Yes," he replies.

"Say it, please."

"I love you, Shannon."

I let my nightgown fall to the floor.


	23. Chapter 23

Wes pushes me onto the bed. The sheets are cold against my skin. Wes climbs on top of me, still dressed, and kisses my neck. I pull his shirt free of his pants and fumble with the buttons. Wes' hands move to his belt. I hear his zipper slide down. I close my eyes, as his lips return to my neck, then travel along my collarbone, and down to my breasts. I inhale, sharply. Dear Lord. I can hardly believe what I'm about to do.

Wes' kisses stop. "I have to get something," he says and rolls off of me. I half-sit up and watch him run to the bathroom, half-hopping as he attempts to pull off his socks. Socks discarded, he returns in only a pair of dark gray boxer briefs. He's holding the box of condoms. He shows them to me when he gets back on the bed. "I'm allergic to latex," he explains. "Is lambskin okay?"

"I don't care what you use," I reply, almost impatiently. I lean back on my elbows, watching him. "Lay on top of me," I command, although it comes out pleading. I sound pitiful.

But Wes obeys, climbing back on top of me. I wrap my arms around his neck, holding him close, his weight pinning me down. I feel safe. Protected. I press my lips to his neck.

"Should I turn out the lights?" Wes asks, softly.

"No. I want to see how much you love me," I reply, then whisper in his ear, "I love you, Wes. I'm going to prove how much I love you."

Wes doesn't answer right away. His hand caresses my left breast, but drops suddenly. "I can't do this," Wes says, pushing up off of me.

"What's wrong?"

"You're upset," Wes says, moving to the other side of the bed. "This isn't right."

I sit up and cover my breasts. "Why are you rejecting me?" I demand.

"I'm not rejecting you!"

"Then why won't you make love to me? That's why we're here! That's why you rented this hotel room! I'm ready. I want you to make love to me. Right now. You said you love me!"

"I do! That's why I can't do this. You're upset about your father. I don't...I don't think you're thinking rationally and I won't take advantage of that," Wes says. He reaches out and touches my shoulder. "I don't want our first time to be like this."

I push his hand away. "This is because I'm a virgin," I snap, sliding off the bed, still holding my hands over my breasts. "I'm not a child. Don't tell me what I want and don't want." I pick my nightgown up from the ground and pull it over my head. "My father has nothing to do with us. Why are you backing out? You're supposed to love me!"

"Whether or not I love you has nothing to do with it, Shannon. You are obviously not all right because you're acting like a lunatic!"

A lunatic! A lunatic! I'll show him a lunatic. I grab a vase of pink peonies from the table and hurl them at his head. I miss and the vase shatters against the wall. Wes looks stunned. I turn and storm into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. On the other side of the door, the telephone rings. Certainly the front desk. Certainly the other guests have complained. I don't listen to what Wes tells them. Instead, I lean forward on the counter, staring down into the sink. Tears fight behind my eyes, but I hold them back. I fight harder. I breathe deeply. In and out. In and out. In and out.

Wes is right. I'm acting like a lunatic. I'm acting like a child. I need to regain control. I never should have lost it. This isn't like me. I never show too much. I snap my nightgown closed. Tonight was supposed to be special. Wes is supposed to love me. All I want is to be loved.

When I come out of the bathroom, Wes is sitting on the bed, dressed, putting on his shoes. He's leaving. He's leaving me.

"I'm sorry, Wes," I tell him, quietly. "I'm so sorry. Please don't go. Please don't leave me."

Wes doesn't look up. "I'm going out for coffee. You need some time to calm down."

"I'm calm," I insist. "I'm so sorry. I'll pay for the vase, of course."

Wes stands up, finally looking at me. "Don't worry about the vase. I'll give you some time to yourself. We'll talk when I get back. I'll bring you something, uh, decaffeinated." Wes opens the door. He leaves me.

I stand in the room, alone, abandoned. I wrap my arms around myself and stare for a very long time at my reflection in the mirror. Then I hang up my coat. And hang up my dress. I straighten the rumpled comforter and sheets. Wes has already thrown the peonies and the broken ceramic in the wastebasket. There's nothing else for me to do. I'm not sure what Wes expects. I won't be a crumpled, sobbing heap on the floor when he returns. I sit down in an armchair, tuck my legs underneath me, and wait.

Wes returns twenty minutes later. I'm still sitting in the armchair. I haven't moved, not even an inch.

Wes hands me a paper cup. "It's peppermint tea. The girl said it would help you sleep."

I take the cup. "Thank you, Wes," I say. I sip the tea. It's strong.

Wes perches on the edge of the bed. He's holding a huge cup of coffee. He drinks way too much coffee. Now isn't the time to point that out though. "Are you all right now?" Wes asks a bit cautiously.

I was all right before he left. But I don't point that out either. "Yes," I tell him. "I feel much better. I am sorry about earlier, Wes. I shouldn't have acted like that. Will you forgive me?"

"Of course," Wes says. "You were upset. I never should have...let things progress so far. I was being selfish. Do you want to talk? About what happened with your dad? That must have been a shock."

I shake my head. I'm not wasting any more thoughts or anger on my father. He doesn't deserve anything from me, not even rage. I set down my tea and rise from the armchair, crossing to Wes. I wrap my arms around his waist, lift on my toes to kiss him softly on the mouth. I'm not used to kissing him in bare feet. "Thank you for forgiving me," I say. "Do you want to try again?"

Wes hesitates. "Uh...I don't think so. I still wouldn't feel right."

I drop my arms and step back, brushing some hair from my face. "Maybe in the morning then," I reply, masking the hurt in my voice. Is there something wrong with me? He wanted me an hour ago. I saw it in his eyes. I felt his erection.

"Maybe," Wes says with enough hesitation that I know he doesn't mean it. "Or maybe...we'll wait until we get back to Stoneybrook."

I walk around to my side of the bed and shrug. "There's nothing special about Stoneybrook," I tell him, sliding underneath the comforter.

"Being with you will be special enough."

I roll over onto my side and don't answer. I listen to Wes change out of his clothes, then he goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth. A couple minutes later, the lights go out and Wes climbs into bed with me. He moves close, sliding an arm over me, lightly brushing my breasts with his hand. Then his hand settles against my stomach. It's not long before he's asleep. I don't sleep at all.

* * *

Wes and I don't talk much in the morning. We don't talk much on the drive back to Stoneybrook either. Wes turns the radio up to fill the silence while I stare out the window, watching as we zoom passed buildings and trees and other cars. Wes doesn't sing to me. He isn't cold or rude, but he isn't his usual self either. He doesn't smile or touch my leg. I've ruined everything. This is what comes from showing too much, revealing too much of what I bury deep inside. I dropped my guard for an instant and it all came pouring out.

When Wes pulls into my driveway, I check the neighborhood, discreetly. I know Mom is in Chicago and Tiffany is at work. Dad's probably with his hooker. Maria's not around. Yesterday, Mr. Papadakis mentioned miniature golfing at the indoor course in Mercer. I only have to worry about Abby and Kristy. Their yards are deserted.

Wes takes my suitcase from the trunk as I retrieve my garment bag from the backseat. We don't say anything as we walk up the drive. I turn my key in the lock and lead Wes into the foyer, flicking on the light as I enter. It seems much longer than twenty-four hours ago that I left here, nervous and excited about not returning a virgin. And here I am, the same Shannon, only slightly more damaged.

"Would you like me to carry this up to your room?" Wes asks, still holding my suitcase.

I shake my head. "No, that's okay. It isn't very heavy," I reply.

Wes sets the suitcase at the foot of the stairs. "All right then. I guess I should go." He leans in and kisses me lightly. "I'll call you later."

I nod, wondering if he will.

I watch him drive away from the dining room window. As soon as he disappears down McLelland, my phone rings upstairs. I don't want to talk to anyone. But nevertheless, I rush up the stairs, two at a time, and answer.

"Who was that man?" Kristy demands when I pick up.

Cold dread washes over me. Kristy's been watching me from her window again. "Were you spying on me?" I ask.

"No! I'm at my desk doing homework. I told you before, I can see your house from here. Who was that?"

I pause, thinking quickly. "That was Allie's older brother," I lie. Allie is a junior in my European history class. "He picked us up at the train station. He dropped me off last."

"Why did he go inside?"

"He was thirsty."

"Where was Allie?"

"What is this? Twenty questions?"

Kristy pauses. "No. Sorry. What are you doing now? Come over."

Is she serious? "I just walked in the door, Kristy," I reply, exasperated. She knows that. She was watching me. "I've had a horrible weekend. I want to take a nap." I want to curl up and die.

Kristy is undeterred. "You can nap later. I have so much to tell you! I have a ton of new ideas for the Smart and Sober club. I've been outlining them all morning. Guess what? Stacey McGill almost killed Cokie Mason last night!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Come over and I'll tell you!"

I sigh. Very heavily so Kristy hears. Not that it will matter to her. Maybe this is what I need. I can throw myself into working on Kristy's ideas and then I won't think about Wes and I. I can forget, push everything aside. "All right. I'll be over in a few minutes," I tell Kristy.

Kristy's waiting at the front door when I reach her house. I notice Charlie's car parked in the driveway. Kristy never said anything about him coming home this weekend.

"What's Charlie doing here?" I ask Kristy.

"I told you, Stacey almost killed Cokie. Charlie drove Rick into town this morning."

"I thought you were _joking._"

Kristy shakes her head as we start up the stairs. "Nope," she replies. "Stacey threw some wild party while her mom was out of town. Cokie drank too much. Alcohol poisoning. I don't know all the details. Mary Anne called this morning, but I couldn't understand everything she said. She was pretty mad about something. Then her dad yelled at her to get off the phone. I called Claudia, but she had a hangover and couldn't talk." Kristy glances back at me and sighs. "I don't know _what's_ become of the BSC. I thought Mary Anne and Stacey at least had some sense, even if Claudia, Mal, Jessi, and Dawn are complete disasters. I guess it's just you and me, Shannon, the only normal ones left."

I bite my lip as I sit down on Kristy's bed. I wouldn't exactly call Kristy _normal_ and as for me...I can't even ponder what Kristy would say about Wes and I. "So, is Cokie okay?" I ask.

Kristy shuts the door and shrugs. "I don't know. I guess she's in a coma. Charlie stayed at the hospital awhile with Rick, who's really upset. And I guess her parents are hysterical. Of course." Kristy shrugs again. "She'll be okay, I think," Kristy assures me. She picks up a stack of folders and papers from her desk and carries them to me. "But some good can come of this. Maybe now kids will take us seriously. I've been putting together a new presentation on alcohol poisoning. I'm going to call the SHS principal tomorrow to discuss our presenting there."

"This is good, Kristy," I tell her, flipping through her notes. This is just what I need to take my mind off Wes. I grab a pen from the night table and add my own notes alongside Kristy's.

Kristy throws herself onto the bed with a highlighter and photocopied magazine article. "Why was your weekend so terrible?" she asks me.

"I don't want to discuss it," I reply, shortly. I cross out one of Kristy's sentences and rewrite it. "Have you spoken to Lindsey or Meg?" I ask. Friday night, after the date from hell, I called Kristy and told her everything. She was appropriately horrified. She had quite a few choice words to say about Price and Meg.

"I'm not even bothering with Meg Jardin. She's always calling her mother a cow, well, she should look in the mirror," Kristy answers, testily. "And Lindsey won't come to the telephone. I spoke to her grandmother yesterday. Lindsey's really upset about Meg," Kristy says, running her highlighter across the page. She pauses. "Dr. Dupree asked if I'd stuck any more feminine products up my nose lately."

I laugh. It's strange laughing after all the awful feelings that have consumed me.

Kristy throws the highlighter at me, then laughs. "Abby thinks we should go in every week and see what we can get up our noses before Mrs. Bernstein throws us out."

"Did you tell Abby about Friday night?" I ask. Kristy and I debated about whether to tell her. We weren't sure how much what Price said would upset her. We decided she'd find out sooner or later from someone.

Kristy stops laughing. "Yeah. She's really mad. Mostly at Meg. I mean, we already knew Price Irving was subhuman, but Meg's supposed to be our friend."

I nod. "People are disappointing," I say.

"Yeah."

Kristy and I work for another hour, concentrating solely on our presentation. I don't feel like discussing Meg anymore or Price or Lindsey. It's too depressing on top of everything else wrong in my life. I should be able to count on my friends. I guess Kristy feels the same way.

"I should probably go now," I tell Kristy, checking my watch. I need to pick up Tiffany from Washington Mall, plus I have a ton of homework that's been neglected this weekend. At least that's something to bury myself in.

Kristy closes her book. "Oh. Okay. Thanks for coming over," she says, standing up and walking me into the hallway.

"Sure. It was a nice distraction," I reply and before she asks questions, continue on, "Where's Charlie? I'd like to say hi to him."

Kristy rolls her eyes. "I think he's in the game room with Janet."

I raise my eyebrows. "Janet's here?"

"Isn't she always here?" Kristy replies, exasperated, although I've not seen Janet around for a while. "She came over whining about Sam to Mom and Watson. I guess he hasn't been coming home after work and refuses to tell her where he goes. Not that I blame him. If Janet were my wife, I'd hide from her, too! And I don't know what she expects Mom and Watson to do." Kristy rolls her eyes again.

Despite my currently conflicted feelings toward Janet, I can't help saying, "Really, Kristy, she's not that bad."

Kristy gives me a disgusted look, then turns and begins walking toward the game room. As we approach, I hear laughter and the clicking of a puck against the sides of the air hockey table. The Thomas-Brewers' game room is amazing. They have an air hockey table and a ping-pong table, plus two pinball machines, a foosball table, and an old Pac-Man arcade game. There's also a real soda vending machine. I think this room is part of the reason Maria is so fond of David Michael.

Janet looks up when we enter the room and Charlie scores a point on her. "That isn't fair!" she exclaims.

Charlie throws his arms in the air and cheers for himself. "Sorry, Janet. I can't help it if Kristy's ugly mug is so distracting."

"Oh, hahaha, Charles," Kristy replies.

"Hey, Charlie," I say from the doorway. "Hi, Janet," I add a bit hesitantly.

Janet stares at me. I hate when she does that. Her eyes are creepy. "Can I speak to you, Shannon?" she asks. She slides the puck to Charlie and tosses her mallet to Kristy. "Here, you can finish my game."

"Just what I want, to finish a losing game," Kristy replies, sassily.

I take a step back into the hall. "I really don't have time, Janet," I tell her. And I really don't need anyone making me feel worse about myself than I already do.

Janet doesn't listen. Instead, she literally shoves me into the bathroom across the hall. She shuts the door behind us. "Okay," she says, leaning back against the door, blocking me in. "I know you weren't in New York with a study group."

Kristy has such a big mouth. "I'm glad the entire Thomas-Brewer family knows my every move of every day," I snap. I am not in the mood for a lecture.

Janet folds her arms and gives me a piercing stare. "You are _insane_," she tells me. "You have completely lost every ounce of common sense and good reason that God gave you. Running off to New York for a sex romp with a twenty-six year old man?"

"It wasn't a sex romp. We were celebrating our one month anniversary. And, it's none of your business, Janet Thomas, but we didn't even have sex. There were...complications."

"Well! At least you had enough sense to not go through with _that_."

I glower at her. Who does Janet think she is? She isn't my mother. She isn't my sister. She isn't even my friend. She's a teenage mother stuck in a miserable marriage to a budding pervert. And she may be fooling around with her brother-in-law. And she thinks she can lecture me? "As if I wasn't humiliated enough, Janet," I say, icily, standing as tall as possible, hands on my hips, "Wes rejected me." Then I push Janet, hard, out of my way before I start to cry.

I run down the stairs without saying goodbye to Kristy. I stop running when I'm out of the house. I won't cause a spectacle in my neighborhood. Instead, I walk very briskly across the street to my house. No one is home. Of course. I race up the stairs to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. Who am I keeping out? No one wants to come in. I sit down on the bed with the phone in my lap. I need to pick up Tiffany. I'm going to be late. I lift the receiver and dial.

"It's Shannon," I say when Wes answers.

"Hi, Shannon," Wes replies.

There's an awkward silence. I want to ask him if he still loves me. I want to ask him if I've ruined everything.

"I've been thinking a lot, Wes, and I'd like to talk about last night. About my father." Isn't that what he wants? For me to let it out and assure him I'm not crazy? If that's what he needs, if that's what it takes to keep him, I can pretend to still have any sort of emotion to spare for my father. "Can I see you? Tomorrow?"

"Of course. I'm glad you want to talk about it. You need to. Last night, you were a little...uh...scary."

I cringe. "I know."

Somehow, I manage not to ask him if he still loves me.

Wes and I hang up and I finally leave to pick up Tiffany. It's a thirty minute drive to Stamford. I spend the drive reciting Italian translations in my head, so that I don't worry about Wes and whether he will ever truly want me again. I'm ten minutes late, but Tiffany's even later. She strolls out five minutes after I arrive, very casual, eating a corn dog.

"I brought you one," she says, climbing into the car. She tosses the corn dog onto my lap. "Enjoy."

"Hello to you, too."

"Hello."

I set my corn dog in the cup holder and pull away from the curb.

"So..." Tiffany begins, breezily, leaning back in her seat. "What were you really doing in New York this weekend?"

I keep my eyes focused on the road. "Studying."

Tiffany chuckles.

The drive home seems a lot longer than thirty minutes. All the lights are on at the house when we pull into the garage. Maria never listens when I lecture her about conserving energy. She's in the living room with Astrid when Tiffany and I come in. I'd forgotten about Astrid. Maria's eating olives out of a jar, but I don't say anything. Instead, I go straight up to my room and shut the door. The light is blinking on my answering machine, alerting me that I have one new message. I push the play button, then cross to the closet to choose an outfit for tomorrow night.

Anna Stevenson's voice fills the room. "Hello? Shannon? Where have you been all weekend? Listen...I've been thinking...a lot...about what you've said. And I've been talking to Adelaide...look...so...I've decided...I'm coming home next weekend. I'm going to talk to my mom. As long as I hate her, she might as well know why...don't tell Abby anything. She has enough problems now...I want you to be with me though...um...I'll see you this weekend..." There's a long silence, then the message clicks off.


	24. Chapter 24

Meg's already at her desk when I walk into fifth period Italian. I pause in the doorway, watching her for a moment then stride quickly into the room like it's any other day. Meg glances up from her notes as I slide into my seat. I turn sideways, crossing my ankles, and regard her.

Meg stares back at me, her ruby red lips slightly parted, expression blank. She pushes a strand of black hair behind her ear. "I've decided to forgive you," she informs me.

"Excuse me?"

"I've decided to forgive you for the way you treated me and Price."

I laugh. Oh, the nerve! How can Meg sit there, look me in the eyes, and say such a ridiculous thing? "There is nothing for you to forgive me for," I tell Meg. "The person you need to apologize to is Lindsey."

Meg scoffs. "Are you kidding?" she demands, furiously. "Do you know how much trouble that loudmouth caused? Her stupid grandmother called my mom! She told Mom everything about Friday night and got Mom all riled up over nothing! Mom didn't like that...that word Price said. She thinks it indicates ill-breeding. I don't understand the fuss. Dad's used it plenty of times. Now I'm not allowed to see Price. But it wasn't enough for Dr. Dupree to destroy _my_ social life, she then called Price's parents and now Price is in trouble. He's never going to want to see me again! All because of Lindsey Dupree and her cow of a grandmother."

I gape at Meg, absolutely flabbergasted. Is she...serious? This has to be a joke. Right? "Meg...do you know what that word _means_?" I ask.

"Yes. Greer explained it to me."

"And what does Greer say about this?"

Meg sets her mouth in a hard frown, but doesn't answer. Ha! So, Greer hasn't lost all her good sense.

"His using that word doesn't bother you?" I ask Meg, calmly as possible.

Meg sighs, exasperated. "It's not like he said it about _Lindsey_. Or that stupid grandmother of hers. That would be different. What do I care if he says it about some girl I don't know?"

"And what happens when he talks about you like he did those other girls? Bragging to strangers that you were another slut he banged?"

Meg's frown deepens. "I'm not a slut and he won't 'bang' me. I keep my legs firmly together just like my mother tells me," she says, irritably.

"I don't think Price Irving cares much about the truth," I inform her, then turn around, facing forward. I can't look at her anymore.

Class is about to begin. Signore Chancey's at the board, writing out today's schedule. Sally White strolls in, binder tucked underneath her arm, looking very casual. She walks down our row and takes her usual seat beside Meg.

Sally opens her binder and removes her homework. "You know," she says, in a perfectly conversational tone, "my mom's Swedish. Got any ethnic slurs for me?"

"Oh, shut up, Sally," I snap and open my textbook.

* * *

"Janet was asking about you last night," Kristy informs me when I sit down at our lunch table.

"Why?" I reply, spreading my napkin on the table. I begin setting out my lunch, very casual, face expressionless. I don't betray my true response - panic dropping my stomach to my knees.

Kristy wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, she wanted to know if you're dating anyone or if I think you're dating anyone but keeping it a secret."

Across the table, Lindsey, who's seated next to Kristy, smiles slyly and winks.

I stab the straw into my Capri Sun. "How odd," I comment, coolly.

Kristy nods. "I know! Then she asked if I thought you might be," Kristy lowers her voice, "having sex."

"That's weird," Abby says, bent over her geology textbook. She's filling out a chart that's due next period. When will she learn?

I unwrap my sandwich. "What did you tell her?" I ask, then take a bite, chewing slowly like the answer doesn't really matter.

"I told her to stop asking crazy questions," Kristy replies. "Why did she want to talk to you yesterday? Did you say something weird to her?"

"Of course not. She wanted, um, advice about Sam. I can't tell you more than that. She took me into her confidence." I never imagined lies would spill from my mouth so effortlessly.

Kristy scowls. "Since when are you and Janet best friends?" she demands. She takes a large bite of her apple, crunching loudly.

Lindsey puts her left hand beside her mouth, shielding it from Kristy's view. She mouths, "Sex?" and raises her eyebrows. I continue eating, pretending not to notice.

"Maybe Janet wants to set Shannon up," Abby suggests. "On a date."

"Oh, you're probably right," Kristy agrees. "Yuck! I'd hate to see who Janet would choose for you, Shannon."

"After all, she chose Sam for herself," I point out.

Abby chuckles.

"She got lucky," Kristy replies.

It's an effort to not roll my eyes. Lucky. Right. I peel the lid off my yogurt and dip in my spoon. I take a small bite. It doesn't taste very good. I feel sort of ill. Janet won't tell. She won't tell.

Kristy and Lindsey begin discussing some t.v. show they watched last night. I half-listen while finishing my yogurt and sandwich. I glance around the cafeteria. Greer's a few tables away, sitting with Karl and the rest of the drama club. Meg's near the lunch line seated with Kara Ferguison, this awful girl I loathe with every fiber of my being. She makes a delightful match for the new soulless Meg. I don't see Sally White anywhere. I'm ashamed to admit that I've grown accustomed to her obnoxious presence.

When Kristy and Abby finish their lunches, they both rush off. Kristy to drop an article off at the newspaper office and Abby to check something in the geology lab. As soon as they leave, Lindsey leans forward, dropping her voice conspiratorially. "So, are you?" she asks.

"Am I what?"

"Having sex!" she hisses.

"No," I answer, then glance around and tilt my head toward hers, "but I'm going to. Soon. Maybe tonight."

"The older man?"

"Yes," I reply, shortly. "Will you be lecturing me, too?"

"Of course not! Why would I? It's time to get it over with. He's older. He'll know what he's doing. It should last longer than a minute and a half."

I certainly hope so. How disappointing otherwise. "I'm not doing it just to get it over with," I tell her. "He loves me."

Lindsey looks very impressed. "You're making the right decision then," she says.

I smile. At least someone approves.

* * *

Greer Carson corners me after school. I'm at my locker, loading books into my messenger bag and suddenly she's beside me, leaning back against the lockers like old times, like back when we were still friends. She's straightened her auburn hair and pulled it back into a french twist and has wrapped a navy and gold silk scarf around her neck. She doesn't look like she belongs at Stoneybrook Day.

"You need to talk some sense into Meg Jardin," she informs me without a greeting.

"Why? Do I have custody of her this week?" I reply, sliding my geology book back into my locker. Meg's bounced between us since Greer and I stopped speaking, much like Lindsey. But today she didn't eat with either of us, or sit with either of us during study period.

"She doesn't listen to me," Greer says. "For someone with no backbone, she certainly is stubborn. What's with this trash she's hanging around? I've heard Meg's version of the story and Lindsey's version. Neither makes any sense. Is this guy for real?"

"Unfortunately."

Greer bangs the back of her head against the lockers, hand pressed to her forehead. "Oh my God!" she wails.

I stare at her, stonily, and slam my locker shut. I'm in no mood for her theatrics. I won't humor her anymore. "Meg can be your problem," I tell her. "I have enough of my own."

Greer drops her hand and stills. "Fine," she says. She hugs her binder to her chest. "This is so stupid, Shannon. Can't we be friends again?"

"No."

"Look, I'm sorry I called you a prude. I miss you, Shannon. I miss everyone. Let's make up."

I shake my head.

Greer frowns. "You're impossible, Shannon Kilbourne!" she shouts, then turns dramatically, lifting her nose in the air, and marches off. A paper slips out of her binder and falls to the floor.

"You dropped something," I call after her, bending over to pick it up. It's an essay for British Literature. Greer received an A. I raise an eyebrow. Greer detests that class. "Congratulations," I say, flipping over her title page.

Greer attempts to snatch the essay back, but I maintain my grip. "_Lord of the Flies_ was a fabulous book," she tells me, reaching for the paper again.

I chuckle. "You liked it? Isn't this a little below twelfth grade standards, Greer? I wrote an essay on _Lord of the Flies_ in eighth grade!" I exclaim, scanning her introductory paragraph. My jaw drops. "Greer Carson! This _is_ my eighth grade essay!"

Greer grabs the essay. "It is not!" she cries, cramming it into her binder.

"Yes, it is! You just changed part of the introduction! You stole my paper!"

Greer's face flushes bright red. "I did not," she replies, indignantly, lifting her nose in the air. "It's...it's a coincidence."

I glower at her.

"Oh, all right!" she hisses. "I didn't write it. But I didn't steal it either! I bought it. And it was guaranteed to be an original. I can't believe this! I want my fifty bucks back!"

"Who sold you my paper?" I demand. Then it dawns on me. My jaw drops again. "Tiffany!" I screech. "I'm going to kill her!" I rush away from Greer, down the deserted hallway and out the front doors. I sprint all the way to my car and tear out of the parking lot. Tiffany! I will throttle her!

"Is Tiffany home?" I shriek at Mrs. Bryar when I run through the front door.

Startled, Mrs. Bryar drops her can of furniture polish. "No. She's not. Maria's upstairs though. Don't you have a meeting today?"

Italian Club. That's right. It's not important. At least not as important as murdering Tiffany. Selling my essay to Greer Carson! How many others has she sold? "Has Tiffany been home at all?" I ask Mrs. Bryar, ignoring her question.

"No. Shannon, are you all right?"

I race up the stairs without answering her. I toss my messenger bag into my bedroom, then go across the hall into Tiffany's. Since I replaced her doorknob, she can't lock the door when she leaves. She used to do that. It drove me crazy. I walk into her room and flick on the light. I groan, taking in the room. An absolute disaster. How am I supposed to find anything? Especially when I don't even know what I'm searching for. I begin opening Tiffany's desk drawers, digging through the uncapped pens and pencils stubs with their chewed erasers and candy wrappers, and wadded papers. Tiffany must have gone through my files. I have every paper I've ever written filed neatly away in a file cabinet in my closet. She's probably made copies of everything. The copies must be somewhere.

I find nothing of interest in Tiffany's desk. I move on to her dresser. They're as messy as the rest of the room. First drawer - socks and panties. Nothing. Except a box of condoms. I sigh, heavily. That's a whole other problem. Quickly, I open the box and count the condoms. All are accounted for. I move onto the second drawer. Nothing. Third and fourth drawers, more of the same. It's in the fifth and final drawer that I find something. It's buried beneath a pile of sweaters. An old cigar box. I shove Tiffany's knick-knacks out of the way and set the box on top of the dresser. I open it and gasp.

It's filled with money. A lot of money. Some of the bills are crumpled, but most are laid out straight, stacked on top of one another. I flatten out the crumpled bills and begin to count. I almost faint. Fifteen hundred dollars. Tiffany has fifteen hundred dollars hidden in a cigar box in her bedroom.

"What are you doing!"

I spin around and drop the money. It scatters at my feet. Tiffany's standing in the doorway, cheeks flaming, nostrils flaring. "Mrs. Bryar said you were looking for me," she informs me, angrily. "What are you doing? Why are you going through my things?"

I kneel down and scoop up the money. "What is this?" I demand, straightening, waving the money at her. "Where did you get this?"

"I saved it! You have no right to go through my things, Shannon!"

"And you have no right to go through mine!"

"I've never touched your things!" Tiffany shouts, storming into the room. She grabs the money from my hand and stuffs it into the cigar box.

"Yes, you did! My essays! You sold Greer Carson my _Lord of the Flies_ essay for fifty dollars!"

"No, I didn't!" Tiffany argues. She closes the lid and holds the cigar box to her chest, tightly, protectively.

"Where did you get that money then?"

"I saved it! I save all my paychecks! I never sold anything of yours to anyone!"

I stare at Tiffany, thinking. It's true, she never seems to buy anything. I've never wondered what she does with the money she earns at Hot Dog On A Stick. I assumed she wasted it. "What are you saving for? Are you on drugs?"

Tiffany gives me a disgusted look. "Am I on drugs?" she repeats, incredulously. "Am I on drugs? Shannon, if I were on drugs, why would I have all this money? Do you think I'm saving for a years supply or something?" Tiffany demands.

That's true. I soften. "I'm sorry. Of course you're not on drugs. But why do you have that money hidden away? What are you saving for?"

Tiffany's still holding the cigar box tight, like I might try to steal it away. "What do you think? I'm getting out of here. You're leaving next year and I'm not staying behind. Frannie and I are moving to New York."

"You aren't serious."

"I am!"

I sigh, heavily. There's no use arguing. It's not like she's planning to runaway right now. "You didn't take my essay?" I ask her.

"No."

"Do you know who did?"

"No. Greer probably stole it herself."

I frown. Greer is a lot of things, but not a thief. But then...do I really know Greer? I thought I did, just like I thought I knew Meg. Maybe I'm wrong about everyone and everything. "I'm sorry I accused you," I tell Tiffany. "I really am."

Tiffany glares at me a moment, then her face relaxes. "It's okay. I would have accused me, too. Now, get out of my room. Tyler's on his way up. He's had a very bad day and he's very tense. I need to relieve his stress."

"You are not performing oral sex on your boyfriend while Maria's next door in her bedroom," I say, sternly.

"Yes, I am and you can't stop me."

I narrow my eyes. Tiffany has no shame. "Where is Tyler?" I ask.

"Downstairs helping Mrs. Bryar move furniture. She needs to vacuum underneath the couch and armchairs." Tiffany smiles, dreamily. "Isn't Tyler so sweet?" She sighs. "Don't worry, we'll be quiet."

"Just...just...yes, be quiet."

Tiffany smiles, smugly. She won. She knows it. "You may leave now," she tells me, haughtily. She's still clutching the cigar box. She'll re-hide it once I'm gone. As if I'd sneak into her room and steal from her.

I leave the room and check on Maria. She's in her bedroom with Astrid, already working on her homework. The radio is on and I turn it up slightly. That should drown out any noise coming from next door. I take my messenger bag and walk down to the kitchen, passing Tyler on the stairs. I glare at him, so he knows I am aware of what he and my sister have planned. I sit down at the kitchen table and take out my calculus homework. I check the clock on the microwave. It's four o' clock. I have two hours before I leave for Wes'. Plenty of time to complete everything that's due tomorrow. I set to work, listening to the sound of the vacuum droning in the dining room, then across the foyer into the formal living room.

I've just closed my calculus book when Mrs. Bryar comes into the kitchen. She's wearing her coat and scarf. "All right then, Shannon. I'm done for the day," she tells me.

I push my chair away from the table. "I'll walk you out," I reply.

Mrs. Bryar opens her mouth to protest, but closes it quickly. She shrugs. "All right," she says.

All the way out of the house and down the drive, I talk about my Friday night date. I'd like to discuss other things with Mrs. Bryar, like Wes, but I doubt she'd approve. So, instead, I tell her about the disastrous date and my disappointment in Meg. Mrs. Bryar is very understanding. It's nice to have an adult actually listen to me for once.

"Girls lose their heads when they fall in love," she tells me, unlocking her car.

"I know," I agree, thinking of Tiffany.

"Your friend will realize he's a jerk in time. She just has to realize it for herself."

"That's a good point."

I say goodbye to Mrs. Bryar and wave as she pulls away from the curb. Across the street, in Kristy's driveway, I see Janet and Elizabeth standing beside Janet's car. I wonder how long they've been there. I didn't notice them when I came through the front door. Elizabeth has her hands on her hips and Janet's shaking her head. Arguing, as usual. They look in my direction. I begin to raise my arm to wave. Then I realize Elizabeth's glaring at me.


	25. Chapter 25

Elizabeth starts across the street.

My stomach drops to my knees. Oh, dear Lord. Janet told. Janet told! That rat. That hypocritical rat! Elizabeth's mouth is set in a deep, disapproving frown and she's walking very briskly, quickly closing the distance between us. I'm frozen, my feet heavy and weighted, permanently attached to the concrete. All thought bleeds from my mind. Elizabeth is nearing. She's going to yell. She's going to lecture. She's going to ruin the only good thing in my life.

I turn and run toward the house.

"Shannon!" Elizabeth calls after me, but I don't listen. I slam the front door and turn the deadbolt. I lean back against the door and breathe deeply. Dear Lord, what am I supposed to do? I can't hide forever, a prisoner in my own home.

I hear Elizabeth's footsteps on the front porch, approaching the front door. She knocks. Loudly. "Shannon!" she shouts and jiggles the door handle. "Shannon, open the door! I need to speak to you!"

I hold my breath and remain very still, eyes shut tight, silently praying for Elizabeth to simply give up and go away.

"Shannon, I can see you through the glass."

Oh. Right. But I still don't move.

"Shannon! If you don't open the door, I'm going to say what I have to say right here on the front porch. And I'll say it very, very loudly!"

Kristy is her mother's daughter.

I unlock the deadbolt and hold open the door for Elizabeth. "Hello," I greet her, pleasantly with a strained smile.

Elizabeth frowns and steps into the foyer. She slides her hands into the pockets of her long tan skirt. She doesn't speak.

"Let's retire to the study," I suggest in a breezy voice that sounds eerily like my mother's. I turn and stride out of the foyer, although I'm not sure how I accomplish such a strenuous task. My legs are jelly, wobbling unsteadily beneath me. I shut the door behind us.

Elizabeth walks into the center of the room, hands still in her pockets, and stares at me. "Shannon," she says in a quiet, even tone, "please tell me that Janet is either mistaken or simply a liar and that you are not sleeping with a twenty-seven year old man."

Oh. Well, that's easy. "I'm not sleeping with a twenty-seven year old man," I reply and it's not even a lie. Wes and I aren't having sex and he isn't twenty-seven.

Elizabeth doesn't believe me. Her frown deepens. "Are you lying, Shannon?" she asks.

"No! I'm not lying!" I protest. "I promise, I'm still a virgin."

"Are you dating a man who thinks you're twenty years old?" Elizabeth asks. "Did you spend the weekend in New York with him?"

My heart pounds in my chest. It might burst free. I don't know what to say. I don't know how much truth to admit and how many lies should gloss over the rest. I stare at Elizabeth, feeling my heart beating fast against my ribcage. Elizabeth won't believe my lies. "Yes," I reply in a mere whisper.

"Shannon!" Elizabeth exclaims, as if until this moment she did not completely believe it. "What are you _thinking_?"

I fold my arms and look away. "You sound like Janet," I tell her.

"Well! At least Janet's thinking with her head for once," Elizabeth replies. "Which is more than I can say for you. _Twenty-seven years old_? Shannon Kilbourne, what is wrong with you?"

"He's twenty-six, not twenty-seven," I correct, irritably. Janet could at least get her facts straight.

Elizabeth scoffs. "Well! _That_ makes it all right then," she says, sarcastically.

I finally look at her. "You don't understand," I say, snappishly. "Love knows no age."

"You're seventeen years old. You don't know anything about love," Elizabeth tells me. She's agitated. She's lost all patience with me. I've disappointed her. "Does this man really believe you're twenty? What were you doing in New York with him? Do you realize what position you've put yourself in? And him? He can be arrested for having sex with a minor. He could go to prison."

"We aren't having sex!" I cry. "And of course he believes I'm twenty! He's a wonderful man, not a pervert! And no one's going to be arrested. No one's going to prison. _We aren't having sex_."

"Janet thinks differently."

"Janet's a moron."

"She's a lot smarter than you. At least Janet's learned from her mistakes. Honestly, Shannon! Do you want to end up like Janet and Sam?" Elizabeth demands. "All those questions you were asking me about sex and love. I hoped it was only curiosity, although I worried you were plotting a way to win back Mick Stone. I never dreamed...You may not be having sex, but you're certainly thinking about it." Elizabeth presses her fingers to her temples and closes her eyes. She doesn't say anything for awhile and neither do I. Finally, she opens her eyes and lowers her hands. "We need to decide how to get you out of this mess," she tells me.

"I don't want out," I protest. She doesn't understand. I need Wes.

"Oh, honestly, Shannon! You can't continue this charade! It's best to get out now before you do something you truly regret." Elizabeth looks at me wearily, as if she doesn't quite believe I haven't yet done anything to regret. "You need to either come clean or simply end the relationship."

I place my hands on my hips. "I'm not ending anything, Elizabeth," I argue.

Elizabeth places her hands on her hips. "Then I'll do it for you. Give me his name and number. I'll call him. Or I could do it in person. Which do you prefer?"

I almost laugh. She doesn't even know his name! Janet didn't tell her! Janet met him and didn't bother to remember his name. Ha! Janet thinks she's so smart. "No," I reply. "I won't give you his name. You aren't spoiling this for me, Elizabeth."

"I'm not spoiling anything for you, Shannon. I'm saving you from a lot of heartache and regret. Someday, you'll thank me," Elizabeth says, matter-of-factly. "Now, where are your parents? If you won't give me any answers, I'll simply speak to them about the situation."

I really laugh now. "They aren't here," I tell her. "Mom's in Chicago. I have no idea where Dad is. The last I saw him, he was in New York. We haven't heard from him since. And Mom didn't leave the number of her hotel, so you can't call her," I say, triumphantly.

Elizabeth's eyes sort of bug out. "You don't know where your parents _are_?" she asks, appalled.

My triumph melts away. Embarrassment takes over. I fold my arms, self-consciously. "No," I answer. "But they won't care. Dad already knows about him. He doesn't care."

Elizabeth frowns. "Your father knows you're dating a twenty-six year old, who believes you're twenty, and he doesn't care?"

Well, more or less. I shake my head. "He knows. He knows we were in New York together. He thinks it's amusing."

Elizabeth looks at me, sadly. Pityingly. I glance away and stare out the window.

"I'm still speaking to your parents," she tells me. She doesn't sound angry anymore. Just sad. "You know this isn't right, Shannon. You're smarter than this." Elizabeth crosses the room to me and envelopes me in her arms, holding me tight. She whispers in my ear, "I will find out who he is and I will tell him the truth. You may hate me, but not forever." Then she releases me and kisses my forehead.

I don't know what to say. My arms are still folded. I lower my eyes to the floor. "Don't tell Kristy," I say, quietly.

"You can tell her yourself," Elizabeth says. "Or not." But I know that Elizabeth will tell Watson and Nannie. They'll talk about me later. What will they say? What will they think?

Elizabeth opens the study door and I follow her out. Just as we step into the foyer, Maria comes out of the kitchen, eating cherry pie filling from a can with a spoon. And Tiffany and Tyler come down the stairs, Tiffany buttoning her blouse, her hair mussed and lipstick smeared in the corners of her mouth. All three freeze and stare at Elizabeth, who stares back.

"_What_ is going on in this house?" she demands, aghast.

I don't think Kristy or David Michael will ever be allowed over again.

No one speaks until Elizabeth leaves. "What was she doing here?" Tiffany asks me, irritably. Her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment.

I wave my hand. "Nothing, nothing," I say, quickly and start across the foyer on my jelly legs. I grab the cherry pie filling from Maria. "We'll order pizza," I tell her.

"Really?" Maria turns and follows me into the kitchen.

"What's going on?" Tiffany asks, suspiciously, coming into the kitchen, her arm hooked through Tyler's.

"Nothing," I reply, taking out the phone book and flipping it open. "Don't you like pizza?"

"Of course, but you never let us order it."

I scan the page for the Pizza Express phone number. "I have to be somewhere. Soon. This is easier. And it's better than eating pie filling. Is pepperoni okay?"

"Yes," Tiffany and Maria agree.

I dial the number and place an order for a large pepperoni pizza, then I retrieve my checkbook from the study and write out a check. I give the check to Tiffany, who's still watching me suspiciously. I gather my books into my messenger bag. I won't have time to finish my homework now. I'll wake early and complete it then. I have more important concerns on my mind. I dash upstairs, leaving Tiffany, Maria, and Tyler in the kitchen. It's after five. I'm supposed to be at Wes' at six. I can't wait that long. I have to go _now._

I tear through my closet. Last night, I decided on my gray skirt and ivory-sweater for this evening. That isn't right now. I need something better. I remove my violet silk dress with the floral-print, the dress I wore the night I met Wes. Maybe he'll remember. And he'll remember why he liked me in the first place.

I may not have ruined everything in New York. Wes may still want me. He may still love me. But Elizabeth _will _ruin things. If she tracks him down, I know she'll tell. What if Janet remembers his name? Or Mom actually cares when Elizabeth tells her of my deception? I may not have much time left with Wes. Soon, he could know the truth. And he won't love me anymore.

I button my coat over my dress so Tiffany won't ask questions. I lie and claim I'm going to the library. She narrows her eyes at me from where she sits on Tyler's lap at the kitchen table. But she doesn't say anything. She doesn't accuse me of lying. I speed all the way to Wes'. It's five minutes after five-thirty when I knock on the door to his apartment. I glance around nervously while waiting for him to answer the door, as if there's a chance Elizabeth followed me. Silly, I know.

Wes is surprised when he opens the door. "Shannon!" he exclaims and checks his watch. "I wasn't expecting you for another half hour."

"Oh, I thought you said five-thirty," I lie, stepping passed him, quickly. When he shuts the door, I take his face in my hands and kiss him, pushing my tongue into his mouth. I'm pleased when his tongue glides against mine and his arms tighten around my waist.

When Wes breaks the kiss, he's grinning. "I guess you missed me," he says. "I'm glad you came early. I'm not ready though. I still need to change. I'll go do that." He's wearing a blue collared shirt with a striped tie.

"You look very dashing," I tell him, griping his hand. "But I'll help you pick out your shirt."

"Okay," Wes replies and pulls me toward the bedroom. He glances back at me. "You look beautiful, you know. I love when you wear that dress."

I beam at him, then pull open a dresser drawer. It's full of socks and underwear. I try the next one. Shirts. I browse through them and select a long-sleeved green and yellow-striped polo. "This one," I tell him, handing it over.

Wes is unbuttoning his shirt. He pulls it off and lets it drop to the floor, then tugs the polo over his head. "Good choice," he says.

I pick up the discarded shirt and attempt to toss it in the hamper, except Wes' evil cat's sleeping there. She opens one eye, stares at me, and hisses. "Your cat hates me," I inform him, folding the shirt and setting it beside the hamper.

"She hates everyone but me. Don't feel too bad. The girl I paid to feed her while we were in New York, apparently Darth jumped on her head. Ripped the girl's headband to shreds. It's nothing personal. Darth will get used to you."

Doubtful. I eye the cat for a moment, then turn back to the dresser. Wes has photos slipped in along the bottom of the mirror. A photo of himself with his parents, one of his demonic cat, school photos of his cousin from the SHS volleyball team and of a younger boy, who must be her brother. Then there's a photo of me. I try to hide my smile as I pick it up. Wes asked for a photo of me last week. I couldn't give him a school photo from SDS and my parents haven't taken photos of my sisters and I for years. So, I gave him this photo. It's of Anna and I outside her grandparents' house in the Hamptons. Abby took it last summer. I'm wearing dark jean shorts with an eggplant-colored tank top. My hair is blowing in the wind. I look very grown up.

"It's a great photo of you," Wes tells me, taking the photo from my hand. He slides the other photos over a little. "They're a little misarranged," he says. "Your friend is cute, but I usually keep it like this." Wes places my photo back on the mirror, then moves it over so Anna's obscured by his cousin's photo. Only I am visible.

I slip my arm around his waist and kiss his neck. "I'm so glad you've forgiven me, Wes."

"Of course. I understand. You weren't yourself."

Wes leads me back into the living room, although I'd like to stay in the bedroom. I'd like to push him back onto the bed and show him how sorry I truly am. Later. I will show him. But I don't want to spook him again.

"What are you making me?" I ask Wes, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Uh...you know how I told you there's only one thing other than meatloaf that I can make decently?"

I laugh. "Are you making me a grilled cheese sandwich?"

"Yes, but with three kinds of cheeses, so it'll be kind of like you're eating in a real restaurant," Wes replies, opening the refrigerator. "I should take you out. Would you rather go out?"

"No!" I answer, then add hastily, "Um...didn't you want to talk?"

"Oh, right."

I breathe a small sigh of relief. I have to be extra careful now with Elizabeth prowling the streets, looking to wreck my life. She'll probably have Watson, Nannie, and Janet doing the same. It's no longer safe to have Wes pick me up at my house. It's not safe to be seen around Stoneybrook either.

"I love coming to your apartment," I tell him. "I love the privacy."

Wes grins. He sets three blocks of cheese on the counter. While he slices, I butter the sourdough bread. Then we make a salad together. It's such a pleasant, normal sort of thing. It makes me happy, much like at the hotel in New York when Wes and I unpacked together. I enjoy these little couple moments. They feel safe and so homey. Wes and I eat on the couch with our plates resting in our laps. I sit pressed close to his side.

"Have you spoken to your father?" Wes asks me.

"No. I haven't seen him. He hasn't come home."

"Is he still in New York?"

"I don't know."

Even though I can't see Wes' face, I know it's clouded with confusion. "You don't...you don't know where he is? What about your mother?"

"She's on vacation," I reply and take a bite of my sandwich.

"Do you know where _she _is?" Wes asks, a bit hesitantly.

"Somewhere in Chicago."

Wes doesn't say anything for a moment. "That's...kind of weird."

I set my plate on the coffee table, having lost my appetite. I lay my head on Wes' shoulder. "We're very dysfunctional," I tell him. "Things haven't...they haven't been good for a long time. My parents live their own lives and my sisters and I live ours. My parents don't want to be parents anymore. They've shoved us aside into a corner to collect dust. Sometimes they take us out to parade around like prizes. But most of the time, we're regrettable burdens."

Wes sets his plate down. He strokes my hair. "I'm sorry, Shannon. I knew something wasn't right. You never talk about your family. Now I know why. Your parents are very selfish. It's their loss, not knowing what a wonderful person you are." He kisses my temple.

"You probably think I'm foolish for the way I reacted in New York. I already knew my parents didn't have a marriage anymore. I suspected them both of cheating. I shouldn't have been surprised. I don't know why I was."

"You weren't foolish," Wes assures me. "You were upset. And I admit...as scary as you were in the moment, looking back, it wasn't so bad. It was almost sort of nice seeing you drop your guard."

I laugh and look up at him. "You're joking!"

Wes laughs, too. "No. Really."

"I never lose control like that. I don't know why I reacted that way. It's so embarrassing. I'm glad I didn't frighten you away."

"Oh, I've had girls hurl vases at my head plenty of times."

"You have not!"

"Okay, there was only one other girl. And she hurled multiple things at me on multiple occasions. So, you have _at least_ fifteen more chances to use my face as target practice before I get fed up."

"I don't intend to ever throw anything at you ever again. But I do intend to do this," I tell him and press my lips to the underside of his jaw. I trail kisses down his neck and swing my leg over to straddle his hips. I kiss his mouth, hard and desperate, invading his mouth with my tongue. If this is it, if everything is spoiled tomorrow, I will show him how I feel tonight. There won't be any doubts in his mind.

Wes kisses me back and slides his hands under my skirt, resting them on my buttocks. I squeeze his hips with my knees and lean in closer to him. I kiss his earlobe and whisper, "The bedroom. I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" he whispers back.

"I'm ready. I'm ready," I assure him.

I slide off his lap and lead him to the bedroom, flicking on the light as we enter. "Unzip my dress," I command, turning my back to him. Wes obeys, slowly pulling the zipper down. I kisses the back of my neck. I let the dress fall to the floor and step out of it and then out of my heels.

I stand beside the dresser in only my white lace panties and bra and watch Wes undress. He does it very quickly. Any hesitation he felt on the couch has melted away. Soon, Wes has stripped down to only his black boxer briefs. He comes to where I stand and slips his hands around to my back. He unhooks my bra and gently pushes the straps off my shoulders. The bra falls to the floor.

And his cat hisses.

"That cat isn't staying in here," I tell him, sternly.

Wes grabs the cat off the hamper and throws her out the door. He slams it behind her. Then he flicks off the light. For a moment, I stand still in the dark, then the lamp on the night table switches on, filling the room with dim light.

"That's better," Wes says and pulls back the plaid comforter on his bed.

I walk around the side of the bed and climb in. I lay back. I don't feel so confident anymore. I don't feel so certain. Wes leans over and kisses me. He doesn't climb completely on top of me and I don't beg him to like I did in New York. I want to, but restrain myself. He isn't backing out again. I'm not scaring him away. We kiss for awhile, up and down each others bodies, and finally Wes hooks his fingers inside my panties and pulls them off. Then his boxer briefs join them on the floor. Wes opens the drawer of the night table and takes out a condom.

"You know, lambskin doesn't protect against diseases," he tells me.

"Oh, I know," I say, even though I didn't know that. "I don't have any diseases."

Wes laughs. "Of course not. You're a virgin. I just want to assure you that I don't have any diseases either. I thought I'd mention it."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks," I reply, but I'd really like for him to stop talking and get on with it.

Wes unwraps the condom and slips it on, then he climbs on top of me. "You're ready?" he asks, quietly.

"Yes," I whisper and I think I am. I hope I am.

Wes pushes inside me. I cry out, startled.

"Are you okay?" Wes asks, alarmed.

"I'm fine," I gasp. "It hurts. Keep going."

It takes a lot longer than a minute and a half. It isn't exactly enjoyable. I don't know what I expected. It hurts and it's uncomfortable. And I'm not certain what I'm supposed to do. So, I lay still and occasionally groan, sweat gathering on my brow. Wes doesn't seem to mind. He keeps pumping and making odd little grunting noises. We're both breathing heavily. It isn't horrible. Someday, I might enjoy it. Finally, Wes comes. I don't, but I didn't expect to.

Wes groans and collapses on top of me. He kisses my collarbone, lips trailing down to my breasts. "That was wonderful," he pants. "How do you feel? Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine," I reply, quietly, although I'm not quite sure. "It was great, Wes." I try to sound much more enthusiastic than I feel.

Wes kisses me softly on the lips. "I love you, Shannon," he tells me.

"I love you, too," I reply, but I don't add what I'm really thinking, that now, he can't leave me.


	26. Chapter 26

I am unchanged in the morning when I wake and look at myself in the mirror. I am the same Shannon as yesterday morning, unaltered on the outside. Inside, I don't know. Should I feel like someone new? I look at myself and know I am no longer a virgin, but I don't feel any different. Just as I don't look any different. But I don't feel regret and I don't feel like a part of me died. That is something, right?

I tell Lindsey. I have to tell someone. I might as well tell the one person who approves.

"Are you serious?" Lindsey whispers at the start of first period European history. We've moved to the back of the room and scooted our desks into a far corner.

"Yes, I'm serious," I reply.

Lindsey looks shocked. She didn't think I'd go through with it. "How was it?" she asks.

I hesitate. "Oh, well...it was okay," I answer, honestly. "It seemed kind of...long. I mean, it took a long time. It wasn't bad. But it wasn't quite what I expected either."

"I think it gets better," Lindsey says.

"I hope so. How long do you think it takes? To enjoy it?"

"I don't know."

I tap my pen against my front teeth, thinking. I'll simply have to keep doing it. I'm a quick learner. I want to please Wes. I want him to enjoy making love to me. I want him to keep loving me.

"I should buy him a gift," I tell Lindsey. "Want to come to Bellair's with me?"

"Um...let me see," Lindsey replies, reaching into her bag and pulling out a Stoneybrook U. daily planner. She flips through its pages until she finds today, the fourteenth. "Yeah, I'm free. But I'll have to call my grandparents." Lindsey rolls her eyes. "They've been so ridiculous lately. Well, you know how they are. They're making all these dumb new rules. Like, I can't go out on dates during the week. Ross has to come over and hang out at the house. Like I'm some middle schooler. And on the weekends, we can only go on dates during the day. The persecution, it never ends."

"Um...so, maybe they won't let you come to Bellair's?"

"No, George and Sadie trust me with you. They just don't trust me with myself."

"Ladies in the back, pay attention please!" Ms. Allen calls to us, interrupting our conversation. She begins collecting our research papers. I take mine out of my binder. It's the paper I wrote on Catherine the Great. I didn't make the changes Ms. Allen requested. I meant to do it yesterday. But then Elizabeth came over...So, I printed out another copy of the first draft. I hand the paper to Lindsey and hope for the best.

When I walk into fourth period microbiology, I remember that I forgot to do the homework. There wasn't enough time this morning. I woke early and barely finished my World lit and Italian homework. I've never missed an assignment in microbiology. I have the highest average - 107. Kristy has 106.5. She'll pull ahead of me now.

Kristy and Sally are already seated when I slide into my chair. I lean over and whisper, "I forgot to answer the review questions. Can I please copy?" I've never, ever copied. I once failed a test on purpose, but I've never copied.

Sally shakes her head and folds her hands, primly, on her binder. "Maybe you'll be a little nicer to me from now on," she replies, snottily.

I ignore her and focus on Kristy. "Please?" I plead.

Kristy sighs and slides her paper toward me. "Oh, all right. Just this once. Be sure to reword everything."

"Thanks," I tell her and begin messily scribbling out the answers.

"I told you, you're taking too many honors classes," Kristy says.

"I'm fine."

Sally leans over. "I'm concerned about her, too, Kat."

"Oh, shut up," Kristy and I say in unison.

There are no complications in Italian. Except Sally White spends the entire period singing Barbra Streisand songs and talking at Meg in some made-up language Sally claims is Hebrew. It sounds like gibberish to me. Ten minutes before the bell rings, Meg raises her hand and asks to be assigned a new seat. Sally waves farewell and thanks Meg for leaving the promised land.

Abby and I skip lunch and hide out in the library. We don't have anything due in geology, but there's a quiz tomorrow. Metamorphic rocks. Abby can't even tell the difference between marble and quartzite. Her eyes glaze over at the term "parent rock". I may be a tad behind, temporarily, but at least I've read the chapter.

Normally, I adore school, but I can't wait for the day to end. All my thoughts rest on Wes. I struggle to concentrate during study period. I'm sure to complete my microbiology homework first. I don't have much calculus. I breeze through that by the time the final bell rings. Now all I have to worry about is Italian and the geology quiz. But I still have to sit through an hour long French club meeting, switched at the last minute from tomorrow to today. We're planning a trip to Québec over spring break. I should be paying attention to Madame DuBarry and taking notes, but instead I spend most of the meeting glancing at my watch and thinking of what to buy Wes.

When the meeting is finally over, I'm the first person out the door. I still have to stop at the Stoneybrook Public Library to make copies for my analysis paper in World literature. Then I call Maria from a pay phone to make sure she plans to eat a decent dinner. She assures me, but her assurances don't count for much. It's after four-thirty when I finally pull up outside Lindsey's house. I press the doorbell and wait for Lindsey to answer.

"Hi," I greet her, when she opens the door.

"Hey," Lindsey replies, hesitantly. There's an odd expression on her face. Sort of worried and guilty.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Then Sally White appears behind her.

"What are you doing here?" I demand.

"Homework," Sally answers, dully.

I shoot Lindsey a killer look and step into the hallway. Isn't she over this fixation with Sally White? When will she learn?

"We're doing an economics project," Lindsey explains, twisting her braid around her wrist. "Old Mr. Holton assigned us as partners."

"We're married," says Sally.

"We're married to Kristy, too. There's an odd number in the class."

Oh, Kristy must be _thrilled._

Lindsey picks up her binder from the couch and shows me a piece of blue paper. "We have to set up a household budget. Plus, we have to find a house or an apartment. We actually have to tour them and everything! And we have to investigate insurance plans and bank accounts. We had to draw jobs, too. Kristy's a flight attendant. I'm a librarian."

"I'm a plumber," says Sally.

"Mr. Holton calls the project Something You Can Really Use."

"I'm calling it Screw U for short," Sally adds.

"That's really not a correct acronym," I tell her.

"It's close enough."

Lindsey takes back the paper and slips it into the binder. "We're going apartment hunting at the end of the week," she informs me.

"We hope to find a building manager who accepts our alternative lifestyle."

Lindsey giggles.

I frown. This is just what Lindsey needs - excessive amounts of exposure to Sally White. "Is Kristy here?" I ask.

Lindsey shakes her head. "Her stepdad already picked her up," she answers, then crosses the living room to the telephone. "I just have to call George and tell him where I'll be. Then we can go." Lindsey picks up the telephone and dials.

I eye Sally, who's leaning against the wall, blowing a large pink bubble with her gum. "You aren't coming with us, you know," I tell her, firmly. "We'll drop you off at your house."

Sally pops the bubble and snaps the gum. She sighs, heavily, like I've just unloaded the weight of the world on her slim shoulders. "Oh, Starshine," she says. "That's so inconvenient. You know I'll come anyway. But I'll have to search out our driver and have him take me downtown. Then I'll have scour Bellair's for you. It'll waste so much time. Just take me with you and be done with it."

Take her with us to buy Wes' gift? Never! The last person in the world I want to know about Wes - after Kristy - is Sally White. "You aren't coming with us," I say, sternly. "We aren't doing anything of any interest anyway. We're just, um, buying a birthday gift for my dad."

Sally regards me, coolly. "Not your boyfriend?"

"You told her?" I roar at Lindsey, who's just hung up the phone.

"No. But you just did," Sally smirks.

"I promised I wouldn't tell," Lindsey says, irritably.

My chest and face grow hot. "Sorry," I reply.

Sally laughs. "So, Starshine has a boyfriend. A - " Sally cocks an eyebrow, "secret boyfriend?" She laughs again. "Don't worry, I won't tell. As long as you take me with you."

"Fine," I snap. "You can come, but you're not allowed to speak."

We take Lindsey's car, which is parked on the driveway. Sally and I have a brief skirmish over who gets to sit in the front seat. I win. Annoyingly enough, I think Sally _lets_ me win. I scowl as I latch my seatbelt. This is fantastic. Not only must I spend the evening in the company of vile Sally White, now she has something to hold over my head. Of course, I could just deny having a secret boyfriend. Who would everyone believe - me or Sally? Me. I think. Maybe.

"I have to be home by seven," Lindsey informs me, backing down the driveway.

Sally leans forward, stretching her arms across our headrests. She isn't wearing her seatbelt. "You have a seven o' clock curfew?" she asks. "Is that when the old people go to bed?"

In profile, I see Lindsey make her lemon face. "It's not a curfew! That's when they'll be home. They like me to eat dinner with them."

"Cute."

I turn around. "Sit back and put on your seatbelt. If we wreck, Lindsey's not going to be responsible for you flying through the windshield."

Sally smirks and sits back, latching the seatbelt.

Bellair's isn't crowded, which isn't surprising for a Tuesday evening. In a couple weeks though, when Thanksgiving passes, it will be a zoo. I pause when we walk through the front entrance. I haven't decided what to give Wes. When I dated Mick, I always gave him tapes and sweets. That's what he liked. But that's not special enough for Wes. For someone who loves me.

"What should I get him?" I ask Lindsey. "What do you buy a guy?"

Lindsey shrugs. "Sadie always buys George clothes. What did your mom buy your dad for his last birthday?"

Nothing. But I won't admit that. Instead, I turn to Sally, "Clothes?" I say because she has to be worth something.

Sally looks absolutely disgusted. "Clothes?" she repeats. "You want to buy him _clothes_?"

I scowl and turn back to Lindsey. "Let's look at cologne," I suggest and link arms with her, pulling her away from Sally.

Sally follows, but doesn't say anything. Instead, she snaps her gum loudly and continuously. I think she does it simply to irk me. Lindsey and I browse the cologne counter, undisturbed, while Sally tries on hats two counters away. For being so insistent about coming, she certainly isn't too concerned with the reason we came. A lot of help she is.

"I like this one," Lindsey tells me, holding out her arm. We've rolled up the sleeves of our blouses and sprayed at least ten different colognes along each. There are paper cards available, but cologne smells different on skin. I think so anyway.

I sniff Lindsey's arm. I shake my head. "No. That's what my dad wears," I tell her. I'd prefer death over kissing Wes' neck and thinking of my father.

Lindsey holds out her other arm. "How about this?"

I sniff. "Oh! I like that!" I sniff again. "Yes. This is the one," I tell her, nodding. I wave over the salesgirl.

While the girl's ringing the order, Sally wanders back over. She's wearing a peacock blue beret with an oversized ostrich feather attached to it. She looks ridiculous.

"I'm buying this," she tells us.

"Whatever for?" I ask.

"I intend to wear it."

She's so weird.

I grab Sally's wrist and spray it with the cologne. "This is what I'm buying my...my boyfriend," I say. Not that her opinion matters. At all.

Sally sniffs her wrist. "Nice," she says. "But don't you think he'd rather have the hat?"

Ignoring her, I turn back to the salesgirl and begin writing the check. Sally leaves, wandering back to wherever she found that hideous hat. She returns just as Lindsey and I are walking away from the colognes, a Bellair's bag hanging on my arm. Sally's still wearing the hat. She shows us the receipt, like we need proof she bought it.

"It looks dumb with your uniform," I tell her.

"It might look dumb no matter what," Lindsey says.

I almost faint from shock. Lindsey dare criticize Sally White to her face?

Sally shrugs, not bothered, and adjusts the hat.

"I need to go upstairs to the lingerie department," I announce. I decided last night as I drove home from Wes', if I'm going to be in a sexual relationship, I should have appropriate lingerie. Nothing trashy. Just alluring.

"What the hell kind of birthday gift are you giving this guy?" Sally asks as we step onto the escalator.

"It isn't his birthday," I inform her, testily. "And I need a new bra. FYI."

Sally puckers her lips. "FYI," she repeats and laughs.

I'm counting on Sally wandering off again when we reach the lingerie department, but she sticks close to Lindsey and I. She keeps taking ghastly, scant lingerie off the racks and insisting she's found exactly what I'm looking for. Lindsey is much more helpful. We pick out a lacy seafoam-green bra and a rose-colored satin bra, both with matching panties. Then we move to the nightgowns. While Lindsey and I browse the tasteful gowns, Sally puts on a black lace bustier over her uniform. It's too bad Kristy hates her. Sally is definitely the lube up the nose type.

"I like this one," I tell Lindsey, holding up a short silk gown. It's spaghetti-strapped with a lilac-colored skirt and a white, almost sheer bodice with tiny purple flowers. Wes seems to like me best in purple. I think this would please him.

"Oh, I think so," Lindsey agrees.

Sally moves closer, still wearing the bustier. "Okay," she says. "Let's stop pretending for a minute that you're buying that for your own personal enjoyment. That," she points to the nightgown, "is not for a high school boy. Who the hell are you dating?"

"None of your business."

Sally shrugs and starts unhooking the bustier. "Fine. I'll ask Kat."

I glare at her. "_Fine_. He's not in high school. He's older. And that's all I'm telling you."

"I hope your parents' insurance covers the penicillin shot."

I glance around, making sure no one overheard. The department is deserted. Sally has no tact. I lower my voice. "I don't need a penicillin shot! I am in a caring, committed relationship. He loves me. It's not some cheap tryst on the Italian Riviera!" I spin around and march off toward the sales counter.

We're silent on the escalator. I clutch my purchases to my chest, stewing within myself. I wonder what Sally and Lindsey discussed while I was paying. They never joined me at the counter. I saw them talking. But whatever it was, with Sally White, I doubt it had any substance.

When I pull into my driveway twenty minutes later, Dad's car is in the garage. Mom's still gone. Her flight doesn't get in until late. There's a sinking in my stomach as I enter the house. I don't know what to say to my father. I don't know what he'll say to me. We so rarely say anything that it seems a mistake for us to have anything to possibly discuss. I wonder if Elizabeth got to him. She and Kristy are so much alike. Elizabeth may spy at our house through the windows, too.

Dad and Maria are in the kitchen, eating chinese take-out. I scowl at Maria. She knows she's not supposed to have take-out two nights in a row. Maria ignores the look and crams an egg roll into her mouth.

"Hey there, Shanny," Dad greets me, jovially. Like nothing has happened between Friday and today.

"Hello," I reply, icily, and begin scooping fried rice onto a plate. "When did you get home?"

"Around two," Dad answers, twirling chow mien around his fork. He lifts the fork to his mouth and takes a bite. "Elizabeth Brewer called about an hour ago," he says when he's swallowed.

I knock over the fried rice.

"I took care of everything," Dad says. He winks. Then he laughs.

It doesn't settle my nerves. I am not reassured. Shouldn't he care? At least a little? I wipe the spilled rice into a napkin and toss it into the trash can. And there's still Mom. I'm not in the clear. And worse yet, there's Elizabeth herself.

"Your phone's been ringing like crazy," Maria informs me through a mouthful of sesame chicken.

"Chew your food," I scold.

Maria closes her mouth and swallows. "It's been driving me nuts!" she cries.

I take my plate and go upstairs. I'd rather eat alone in my room anyway. I can't keep a healthy appetite while looking at Dad. I toss my messenger bag onto the bed and peel off my school sweater. I press the play button on the answering machine and listen while eating my dinner. I have seven new messages. All from Wes. No one's ever left me seven messages in a row before. Certainly never seven that are practically the exact same message. _Hello? Shannon? Are you there? Where are you? Call me. Call me as soon as you get home._

I wonder if that's weird. But no one ever worries about where I am or what I'm doing. It's sweet. I think.

I hurry to finish my dinner. I barely taste it. Then I dial Wes' number.

"Hi Wes," I greet him when he answers.

"Shannon! Where have you been? I thought your last class ended at three."

"I went to the library," I reply. "You know how I am with the library. Always there. Then I went shopping. I bought you something."

"Really? Can I have it now?"

I glance at the clock on the wall. It's nearly seven.

"Do you have a lot of studying to do?" Wes asks when I hesitate. He sounds disappointed.

"No, no," I say. I finished almost everything during study period. My Italian homework can wait until the morning. And Abby and I can study for the geology quiz during lunch again. I want to be with Wes. I don't want to disappoint him. "I'll be over in fifteen minutes," I tell him.

"Great! I'll be waiting."

We hang up and I quickly change out of my uniform. Then I slide the cologne into my messenger bag, along with the nightgown, folded neatly in its bag. Maybe I'll need it. Maybe I won't. It depends on what Wes wants.


	27. Chapter 27

The telephone rings a little after three-thirty on Friday afternoon. I'm sitting at my desk hunched over my calculus homework. I'm not just trying to catch up, I'm trying to get ahead. It's going to be a busy, tumultuous weekend with Anna coming into town tomorrow. Plus, I have to juggle my time with Wes. And there's still so many other things in my life to consider, like looking after Tiffany and Maria, and avoiding Elizabeth Brewer like the plague.

I set down my calculator and pick up the phone. I know it's not Wes. He doesn't get home until four and that's when his phone calls start. He calls a lot now. We talk four or five times a day and that doesn't count the calls I miss while I'm out. He likes to know what I'm doing, then just chat. He misses me a lot when I'm not around.

"Hello?" I say into the receiver.

"Come over," orders Kristy.

"Excuse me?" I reply. "Who is this rude person?"

"Why, it's Kristin Amanda Thomas," Kristy replies, sweetly. "Your old friend and neighbor. The one you never see anymore because you're always at the library. Come over! Mary Anne's here. So is Lindsey. Come over. You aren't backing out, Shannon Kilbourne. It's Friday. You can't possibly _have_ to go to the library today."

I sigh. There's no arguing with Kristy. I'll simply rearrange my study schedule later. I'll have plenty of time this evening. Tonight is the first night this week that I won't spend with Wes. He's going to some wedding reception with his parents in Levittown. As much as I love spending time with him, tonight will be a welcome break. Sex still isn't very enjoyable and honestly, I'm tired of pretending that it is.

"I guess I can come over," I tell Kristy, more reluctantly than I feel. I miss Kristy. "What is Mary Anne doing there? I thought she and Stacey McGill were attached at the hip." Kristy and Mary Anne have been friends all their lives, but since Kristy transferred to Stoneybrook Day, they hardly see each other. They're still friends. I don't think that will ever change, but they aren't close.

Kristy groans. "Oh, do _not _mention Stacey McGill to Mary Anne! They're in some kind of tiff. I don't know what's going on. Mary Anne's a real grouch though. Beware."

"This isn't making me want to come over," I say.

"Oh, just get over here! We're working on our economics project. You can help."

"That certainly sweetens the deal," I tell her, then pause, thinking. "Kristy...who _else_ is there?" I ask, suspiciously.

"Uh...no one. See you soon!" Kristy hangs up.

I glare at the receiver. Of course. Sally White is at Kristy's working on their project and driving Kristy insane. No wonder Kristy wants me there. Kristy is so transparent.

I change out of my uniform into dark jeans and my ivory turtleneck sweater. Then I grab my messenger bag and make sure all the doors are locked before leaving. Maria's already at the Thomas-Brewers, hanging out with David Michael, her "boyfriend". I don't know where Tiffany went after school. She's supposed to call. She'll be in big trouble later.

Everyone's waiting for me outside Kristy's house. Kristy and Mary Anne are sitting on the steps, side by side. Kristy's changed out of her uniform, too, and into faded jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and her ratty old collie cap. Mary Anne's also in jeans, much nicer ones, and a dark orange sweater. Her brown hair's in loose pigtails, hanging over the front of her shoulders and secured with dark orange scrunchies. It amazes me how little she's changed since I first met her in eighth grade.

"Hi, everyone!" I greet them, waving, as I cross the lawn. "Hello, Mary Anne. It's been awhile."

"Hi, Shannon," she replies without any enthusiasm.

Lindsey and Sally are leaning back against a front window, still dressed in their uniforms. Sally's wearing that beret with the ostrich feather. Seriously. _In public._

"And she comes out of hiding," Kristy says, looking up at me, shielding her eyes.

Lindsey grins at me, knowingly. Sally's blank expression doesn't change.

"Where's Abby?" I ask.

Kristy shrugs. "Where else? The library. You're always there, she's always there. How are you never there together?"

"It's a big library," I answer, quickly.

Lindsey jumps in and saves me. "Shall we go then?" she asks Kristy.

I raise an eyebrow. "Go? We're going somewhere?"

Kristy stands up and helps pull Mary Anne to her feet. "Yeah. We're apartment hunting. Lindsey, Sally, and I are married, you know." Kristy rolls her eyes. "Anyway, Mary Anne's grandma lives in Waterford Gardens and she said we can come over and photograph the inside. We have to take photos to _prove_ we actually did the research."

"Isn't...isn't Waterford Gardens a senior complex?" I ask.

"So?" replies Sally. "We're pretending to be married. We might as well pretend to be old, too." She elbows Lindsey in the side. "You'll be good at that," she tells her.

Kristy rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head. "Let me just tell Nannie we're leaving," Kristy says, walking toward the front door.

Mary Anne folds her arms across her chest and scowls at the ground. I don't recall her ever being quite so...crabby.

"Are you all right?" I ask her.

"Fine," she snaps. "I'm just having a very bad week!"

"Oh, yeah, I heard about the party. Kristy said Cokie's all right now. I guess you got in a lot of trouble, right?"

Mary Anne continues to scowl. "Yes! I'm grounded for two weeks! I'm not supposed to be here. But my dad's away on business and Sharon can't tell me what to do!"

Sally raises her fist. "Fight the power, pumpkin sweater girl."

I glare at Sally, then turn back to Mary Anne. "I'm sorry, Mary Anne," I tell her. Although I'm not exactly certain what I'm sorry for. Nor am I exactly certain what she's so angry about.

Kristy returns with her car keys. She slips an arm around Mary Anne's waist and they walk off together. I shouldn't feel jealous. After all, I have Wes, but it seems like Kristy and I haven't been so close lately.

Sally hops down the steps and flings an arm around my shoulders. "The library?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow. "And how does the librarian like your new lingerie? Very well, I gather."

I push away her arm and rush after Kristy and Mary Anne. I make sure to _not_ sit beside Sally in the car. Mary Anne sits in the front seat with me behind her. Lindsey sits between Sally and I. Lindsey should like that.

"Don't you have to call your grandparents and ask permission to breathe while in a moving vehicle or something?" Sally asks Lindsey, as soon as we're out of the driveway. She can't not pick at someone for a single minute.

Lindsey makes her lemon face. "No! They know exactly where I am! Besides, I can't call them. George is in class and Sadie has a, um, meeting."

Kristy looks at us in the rearview mirror. "I thought she went to AA on Wednesdays?" Kristy blurts out.

Lindsey's face flushes bright red.

"Kristy!" I shriek and kick the back of her seat, an admirable feat considering I'm on the other side of the station wagon. Sometimes she doesn't think at all.

"I'm sorry!" Kristy cries, whipping her head around. She nearly drives us into a tree.

"Kristy!" Mary Anne screams, lunging for the steering wheel.

Kristy veers quickly back onto the street. "I'm sorry!" she repeats. "Sorry, Lindsey."

Lindsey's face is still flushed. Flushed and puckered into her signature expression. She twirls her braid around her wrist. "It's okay," she says, quietly. "She goes twice a week now. I test her patience and her nerves." Lindsey's braid goes into her mouth.

I thought she'd stopped that again. She's seemed so much better this past week.

"So, Granny's a drinker," Sally says, casually.

"You know, I don't think certain people should be judging other people's parents," I announce, loudly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sally asks.

"It means orchids are my favorite flower."

Sally doesn't say anything the rest of the drive.

Waterford Gardens is right outside Stoneybrook. It's a retirement complex for active seniors. Mary Anne directs Kristy to the visitors parking lot, then we file out of the station wagon. It's a long trek to Mary Anne's grandma's apartment, which is on the opposite side of the complex. I walk with my arm linked through Lindsey's. She's still chewing on her hair.

Mary Anne's grandma is out of town, but Mary Anne lets us into the apartment with her key. Her grandma used to live in Iowa, but moved to Stoneybrook a couple years ago to be closer to Mary Anne, who is her only living relative.

"It looks like...an old person lives here," Sally says, picking up a pillow from the couch. She tosses it into the air. "Grandma likes knitting I see. And kittens."

"Please don't touch my grandma's things," Mary Anne snaps. She turns to Kristy and hisses, "Who is this person?"

Kristy rolls her eyes and waves her hand, dismissively, like it's not even worth getting into. She digs through her bag and pulls out a camera. "Can I photograph the bedroom?" she asks Mary Anne.

"Yeah. Grandma Baker said you can take photos anywhere. Come on, I'll show you."

As soon as Kristy and Mary Anne disappear into the bedroom, Sally begins touching Mrs. Baker's things again. So does Lindsey. She lifts every picture frame off the coffee table, studying them closely. "Is this your mother?" she asks Mary Anne when Mary Anne and Kristy return. Lindsey holds up a silver picture frame.

"Yes," Mary Anne replies, taking the picture frame and setting it down, gently, in place. "She died when I was a baby."

"My mom's dead, too. She died in a train wreck."

"You know, Lindsey," Sally says, laying back across an oversized ottoman. "I noticed when I was at your house, there aren't any photos of _your_ mother anywhere. The place is like a shrine to the alleged greatness of Lindsey Dupree."

"Photos of my mother remind them of the accident," Lindsey answers, effortlessly, then turns to Mary Anne. "It was a really, really horrible train wreck. My parents suffered greatly."

Kristy looks at me, appalled. I'm appalled too. It's one thing to lie to us, but to lie to someone whose mother is actually dead?

After leaving the apartment, we walk down to the office to interview the building manager. Kristy does all the talking. She likes to be in charge. I'm surprised that Sally doesn't obnoxiously jump into the conversation just to irk Kristy. But instead, she sits quietly, scribbling notes and looking very, very disinterested in the whole thing. Lindsey isn't much help either. She doesn't even come into the office. Instead, she and Mary Anne sit in the lobby, talking. I'm not exactly sure what they're discussing, but the words I catch sound like "Sharon" and "persecution".

"We still have check out one more apartment complex for our report," Kristy says when we leave the office. She slips some papers the manager gave her into a folder.

Panic sweeps over me. "Not the Birch Street apartments, I hope," I say, quickly. What if Wes saw us? "I heard they're really gross."

"And I was all ready to sign a lease," Sally replies.

Kristy looks back at me and wrinkles her brow. "Gee, Shannon, it's just pretend."

"We're not going there anyway," Lindsey says. "George's teaching assistant lives in Pine Meadows across from Stoneybrook U. She said we can photograph her apartment. We're going tomorrow."

I breathe a sigh of relief. Discreetly.

Kristy still gives me another strange look. "The building manager at Birch Street was really rude when I called, anyway. He refused to give us a tour or an interview. Are you okay? You're acting really weird."

"I'm fine."

After leaving Waterford Gardens, we drop off Lindsey, then thankfully, Sally. Kristy, Mary Anne, and I don't say a lot on the drive back to McLelland. When Kristy pulls up outside my house, she turns around. "Want to come over for dinner? Nannie and Watson are making lasagna tonight. Maria's eating over. David Michael already invited her. Tiffany can come, too."

I busy myself unlatching my seatbelt and gathering my messenger bag. I don't answer right away. Dinner with Elizabeth? I know what she thinks of me now. And Watson and Nannie, surely they think the same. I don't need all those eyes watching and judging me. None of them understand.

"Not tonight. I have so much homework," I reply, opening the door. "Anna's coming tomorrow. I need to be free for her."

Kristy looks disappointed. "Oh...okay. Maybe you can come over when you finish? Everyone would like to see you. You never come over anymore. Mom's been asking about you all week. I think she misses you, too," Kristy tells me. "Come over later, okay? Mary Anne's staying overnight."

Mary Anne turns around. She still looks rather crabby. "Yeah, come over. It'll be fun," she says, although she doesn't sound like she'll be much fun tonight.

"Maybe," I tell them and climb out of the car.

Mom smacks into me when I enter the house.

"God, Shannon!" she shouts. "Watch where you're going!"

"You ran into me!"

Mom narrows her eyes and smoothes the front of her dress. Magenta. Skin-tight. I wonder if she's going out to exercise her open marriage option. All those late nights having dinners and drinks with co-workers and clients - did any of those people really exist?

"Why aren't you at the Brewers?" she demands. "Maria's there. She called ten minutes ago looking for you."

"I have homework."

Mom checks her hair in the mirror. "You need to go over there. That Elizabeth Brewer keeps calling me at work. Like I have time to talk to her! Probably wants me for one of those stupid charities she's always working on. You tell her, whatever it is, I'm not interested." Mom smiles slightly at her reflection, very pleased with herself. "Dad's at the club. I'll be home late," she tells me, then leaves without a backward glance.

I start up the stairs. Of course I'm not important enough to worry about. I knew that already. I told Elizabeth. I told her they wouldn't care. I drop my messenger bag on the bed, then check the answering machine. Three new messages. The first two are from Wes. One, telling me he's home from work and where am I? The other telling me he's leaving for Levittown and where am I, and he hopes I'm not out falling in love with someone else. The third message is from Anna, reminding me that she's coming home tomorrow and expects me to be with her when she confronts Mrs. Stevenson. I erase all three messages, then dial the number of Anna's dorm, but the line is busy. Then I call Wes and leave a message on his machine, letting him know I'm home and definitely not in the process of falling in love with someone else.

I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. I eat it in my bedroom while working on my homework. With each bite, I think sadly of the lasagna the Thomas-Brewers are currently consuming, everyone pressed close together on the benches in the kitchen, laughing and having a good time. I cram the rest of the sandwich into my mouth and shut the calculus book.

Downstairs, the front door slams and feet thunder up the stairs. Startled, I jump to my feet and rush to the doorway. Tiffany appears on the landing, cheeks streaked with purple eyeliner and black mascara. Her face is flushed crimson red.

"Tiffany! What's wrong?" I shriek.

Tiffany bursts into fresh tears and runs into her bedroom. I follow at her heels, nearly tripping over a pile of clothes tossed carelessly inside her doorway. Tiffany throws herself onto the bed and sobs into her pillow.

"Tiffany, what's wrong?" I demand, heart beginning to pound, truly alarmed now. "What's happened?"

Tiffany lifts her head, face smeared purple and black. "Tyler and I are through!" she wails.

"You...you broke up?" I cry, taken aback.

"I dumped him! He's a jerk!"

"What happened?"

Tiffany wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "He thinks I'm stupid," she sobs.

Anger rises in my chest. "He called you stupid?" I demand.

"Yes. No. Yes! I got a D on my algebra test. Don't be mad, Shanny! I studied. I really did. I was so upset and you know what Tyler said? He said I shouldn't worry because he's not dating me for my mind!"

"He said that to you?" I demand, furiously.

Tiffany nods. "Yes! After all I did for him! I thought he really loved me! I loved him! I loved him so much, Shanny, and I proved it to him. Over and over. And that's all he wanted from me!" Tiffany begins crying again.

I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill Tyler Austen. I sit down on the bed and wrap my arms around Tiffany. I hold her very tight. "He's a jerk. You're best rid of him. You deserve better, you're worth so much more. You aren't stupid. You're bright and clever and Tyler's a fool if he can't see that."

"I'm going to make him pay. He's going to be sorry."

"He isn't even worth the time."

"I'm going to punish him. He'll be so sorry."

I hold Tiffany a little tighter and she slides her arms around my waist, tightening her hold until she nearly crushes me. In my bedroom, the telephone rings, but I don't move to answer it.


	28. Chapter 28

I carry a breakfast tray up to Tiffany in the morning. Instant oatmeal and wheat toast. That's the most complicated breakfast I can make. I tried to make scrambled eggs once, but that didn't work out.

"Are you awake?" I ask, softly, coming into Tiffany's bedroom. I set the tray on a narrow clear spot on the night table, then open the blinds.

Tiffany opens her eyes, part way, and watches me, sleepily. "What time is it?" she groans.

"Ten o' clock," I reply, picking up the tray. "I made you breakfast. Sit up. You need a nice, warm breakfast to help you feel better. You have a long day at work."

Tiffany rubs her eyes and sits up. "I'm calling in sick," she says as I set the tray on her lap. She lifts a piece of toast to her mouth and nibbles the corner. She drops it. "I'm not hungry."

"But you didn't eat last night either," I argue. I hold out the glass of milk to her. "Drink this. And you should go to work. You can't lie around all day. Tyler Austen isn't worth that. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"I don't think you're human," Tiffany tells me, then falls backward onto the bed. She covers her face with her hands.

I move the tray back to the night table. "Maybe you'll change your mind."

"About you not being human?"

"No, about breakfast."

"Breakfast isn't going to solve anything," Tiffany says, rolling onto her side, turning her back on me. "I'm not like you, Shannon. I can't just slide the card back into the envelope and pretend it never happened. I can't pretend my heart's not broken. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone to wallow in my misery."

"I'm going to have some words with Tyler," I inform her.

Tiffany rolls over. "Oh, God, please don't! I don't need my sister verbally assaulting my boyfriend. I'll take care of Tyler on my own." Tiffany flops onto her stomach and folds her arms over her head. "I will punish him. He'll be sorry for how he's hurt me."

In my bedroom, the telephone rings.

"God! That damn phone of yours! Who the hell is calling twenty bazillion times a day? God!"

"Eat your breakfast," I tell her and leave the room, shutting the door behind me.

"Is it too early to call?" Wes asks when I answer the phone.

I lay back on the bed. "No. I don't sleep late. Although, my sister's across the hall complaining about the phone always ringing."

There's a long pause. "Am I calling too much?" Wes asks.

"Of course not," I answer. No one has ever been so interested in where I am or what I'm doing. I wonder if I should call him more.

"Oh, good," Wes says, sounding relieved. "My last girlfriend...well, let's not talk about _her_. What are you doing? What did you do last night? I missed you."

"I spent the entire night comforting my sister. She broke up with her boyfriend. She's really upset. He told her it didn't matter that she's not smart because he's not dating her for her intelligence. Or something like that. She cried all night and now she won't get out of bed."

"What a jerk. Do you want me to go to his house and rough him up?"

I laugh. "No, because he's sixteen and you don't need to be out assaulting minors," I tell him. Then I bite my lip. Well, that's different. "So, how was the wedding reception?"

Wes groans. "Unbelievably boring. I would have much rather been with you. That's all I thought the entire night, how much I wished you were with me."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. And you know what? I told my parents all about you. I decided the time was right since we're getting so serious. They can't wait to meet you. My mom would have you over this afternoon if possible. She wants you to come for Thanksgiving. Are you free?"

I grip the phone tight. His parents want to _meet_ me? Dear Lord. I never considered what would happen when I stopped being a secret. His parents could easily ruin everything. "Um...they want to meet me?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't they?"

I twirl the phone cord around my finger, thinking. "Um...Thanksgiving...I don't know..." The last two years, my sisters and I have gone to the Thomas-Brewers. My parents make their own plans. We've already been invited again, but I don't think I can go. I want to stay as far away from Elizabeth as possible. And from that traitor Janet. "Maybe. Can I get back to you?" I ask Wes.

"Sure! It'll just be my parents and I, so don't worry about being overwhelmed or anything. My aunt and cousins are going to other relatives down in Buffalo. I really hope you come, Shannon."

"Thanks," I reply, pleased.

"So, what are you doing today? Do you want to see a movie? A new biopic opened yesterday. It's about Katherine of Aragon."

"Oh, I want to see that!" I exclaim. "But I can't. Remember, my friend Anna's coming into town today? She's having a bad time and I have to be with her. Maybe tomorrow night."

"Oh, that's right," Wes says, sounding very disappointed. "I don't know if I can go three days without seeing you though."

He's so sweet. "I'm sorry. I miss you, too," I tell him. "I should probably get off the phone though. I have so much homework."

"Oh, well, I understand," Wes replies, although he still sounds disappointed. I hate that I'm the one to disappoint him. "I'll call you later."

After we hang up, I check on Tiffany, who has her pillow over her head. She still hasn't touched her breakfast. I don't say anything and quietly shut the door. Then I wake Maria and go downstairs with my homework. Mom's already gone, even though she didn't creep in until three o' clock in the morning. I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water. Mom pretended not to see me.

I set my textbooks on the dining room table. I can see the Stevenson's house from here. Anna didn't say when she'd arrive. I'll watch for her while working on my homework. All I finished last night was my calculus. I still have World lit, Italian, and geology. Plus, I have to revise my Catherine the Great paper. Ms. Allen didn't appreciate my turning in the same paper twice.

"I'm going to hang out with David Michael Thomas," Maria announces, walking into the dining room.

I look up from my geology notes. "You're over there too much," I tell her.

"I am not!" Maria protests. "Nannie's making chili for lunch and she invited me. You're invited, too. Elizabeth really wants to speak to you. She told me to tell you."

"I'm busy."

"You're always busy."

"I have a lot on my plate. You know that, Maria," I reply. I tap my pen against the front of my teeth, thinking. There's always so much to do. Everyone needs something from me. "Why don't we go out to dinner tonight? We can go to Bellair's afterward and I'll buy you something."

Maria perks up. "Can David Michael Thomas come?" she asks.

"Um...we'll see."

"All right! I'll be home by dinnertime," Maria tells me, then rushes out the front door.

I return to my homework. I finish my geology review questions, then begin organizing my notes for my analysis paper for World lit. I have a special color coding system using highlighters and index cards. It's very efficient. I work diligently for the next hour, occasionally glancing up to look out at the Stevenson's house. The house appears as dark and uninhabited as usual. What if Mrs. Stevenson isn't there? Did Anna even warn her mother that she's coming into town? If Mrs. Stevenson stands Anna up that will only make things so much worse. Anna may never return home again.

Our regular A&P delivery arrives at twelve-thirty. I'm in the kitchen putting away the groceries when the doorbell rings. I drop the ham I'm holding and race into the foyer, throwing the front door open. Anna's on the porch, dressed in old jeans and a gray zip-up sweatshirt, holding a suitcase in one hand. There are dark circles underneath her eyes. She looks terrible.

"Anna!" I cry and throw my arms around her neck. "I'm so happy you're here." I release her so she can come inside.

Anna sets her suitcase down in the foyer. "I had my friends drop me off outside your house," she tells me. "They're on their way into New York. They'll pick me up tomorrow. I may stay here tonight. I haven't decided." She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt and walks into the living room and sinks down onto the couch.

"Is...is your mother home?" I ask, hesitantly, sitting across from her in an armchair.

Anna shrugs.

"She knows you're coming, right?"

Anna nods. "She knows. I told her that we have to discuss something very important. She's supposed to be home. I asked her to make sure Abby's somewhere else. I don't want Abby to hear. She doesn't need to know. Not yet." Anna stares down at her knees, hands still in her pockets.

I fold my hands in my lap and watch her for a moment. "Would you like something to eat or drink?" I ask, not knowing what else to say. I had planned to tell her about my parents and what I've learned about them. I thought maybe it would help. But now isn't the time. I can see that.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Anna tells me.

"Do you want to lie down? I'll get you some water."

Anna shakes her head. "No. I want to talk to my mother. Now."

"Okay," I say, standing up. "Just give me a minute." I hurry back into the kitchen and toss the rest of the groceries into the refrigerator and freezer. Then I run upstairs to tell Tiffany where I'll be. She's pretending to be asleep. I pull on a sweater and grab my messenger bag, then go back downstairs to Anna. She's still sitting o the couch, still staring at her knees.

I hold my hand out to her. "I'm ready if you are," I say.

Anna looks up and takes my hand. She squeezes it so tight as we cross the street, I fear all the bones may shatter. The Stevenson's front door is locked and Anna forgot her keys, so we ring the bell. Then we wait. It's a few minutes before we hear someone on the stairs, then crossing the foyer, heels clicking on the tile. Mrs. Stevenson.

"Why are you ringing the bell?" she asks with a laugh when she opens the door.

Anna shrugs.

Mrs. Stevenson's smile falters. But she opens her arms and wraps them around Anna. Anna doesn't release my hand from her bone-crushing grip and she doesn't hug her mother back either. "Oh, Anna," Mrs. Stevenson says in this sigh of a voice. "I want you to stop being so angry with me. I'm so glad you're home."

You won't be so glad in a few minutes, I think.

Mrs. Stevenson releases Anna and smiles at us. "Come in, girls. There's fresh coffee in the kitchen and I picked up some of Anna's favorite pastries at the bakery this morning." Mrs. Stevenson steps aside so Anna and I may enter. "Abby left about half an hour ago with Kristy and Mary Anne. They're working on some big project. She'll be home later. She's dying to see you, Anna."

Anna leads me into the living room, where we sit together on the couch, as close as possible. I think Anna would sit in my lap if I allowed her. Mrs. Stevenson comes out of the kitchen a few minutes later, carrying a tray with three cups and a plate of cheese and apple danish. Mrs. Stevenson sets two of the cups on the table in front of Anna and I then sips her own. I almost ask for sugar. Mrs. Stevenson doesn't know that's the only way I'll drink coffee. With lots and lots of sugar. But I don't ask. Just as I don't reach for an apple danish, even though I've not eaten since breakfast and am suddenly starving.

"So, Anna, what is this important thing you need to discuss with me?" Mrs. Stevenson asks. She's still smiling, but it's straining at the corners. Her eyes flick to me and then away. She's wondering why I'm here.

Anna reaches into her pocket and pulls something out, her fist closed tight around it. She tosses it across the coffee table. The hospital bracelet. It slides across the shiny cherrywood tabletop and hits the plate of danish, where it stops.

Mrs. Stevenson drops her cup. It falls to the floor, splattering dark liquid on the beige rug. Mrs. Stevenson covers her mouth with her hand. "Oh my God," she gasps.

"I'd like some answers," Anna says, coldly.

Mrs. Stevenson removes her hand from her mouth, still staring at the bracelet. "What were you doing in my safe?" she asks in a quiet, wavering voice.

"It doesn't matter. I found everything. I know about Michael Bergman. I know about it all." Anna reaches in her other pocket and takes out a stack of photos. She tosses them onto the coffee table and they land near the bracelet. Photos of Mrs. Stevenson from long ago, the ones Anna showed me of her in bulky coats and sweaters, hiding her secret pregnancy.

Mrs. Stevenson stares at them and bites her knuckles. "Shannon, I think you should go home," she says.

"Shannon isn't going anywhere," Anna replies. "I'm running the show now, Mother."

Mrs. Stevenson moves her eyes from Anna to me and back again. I shift uncomfortably under her gaze. I fold my hands over my knees and stare at them.

Mrs. Stevenson resigns herself to my presence. "You don't understand," she tells Anna.

"I understand you cheated on my father!" Anna shrieks. And everything she's held in since August explodes. "How could you do that to him? To us? How could you have some other man's baby and throw it away?"

"I didn't throw her away!" Mrs. Stevenson exclaims. "I certainly did not! We found her a wonderful, loving home with parents who wanted her. I couldn't keep her, Anna. Your father didn't want her! I made a choice and I chose you and Abby and Jonathan. It wasn't easy, but I did what I had to do."

"We would have been better off without you," Anna says, venomously. "When you cheated on Dad, you cheated on us all."

"I did not cheat on your father!"

"Yes, you did!" Anna screams and grabs the bracelet off the table. She hurls it at her mother.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Anna!" Mrs. Stevenson cries. She holds her head in her hands and sighs. "I never wanted you or Abby to know. I knew you wouldn't remember. You were too young. Around the time you and Abby turned two years old, Jonathan and I started having problems. He was...dissatisfied with our marriage. Having twins changed things between us. You and Abby were a handful and took up all my time. Jonathan and I didn't have time for each other. Our relationship had changed and you were my focus. Your dad loved you and Abby very much, but...he was unhappy. Shortly after the holidays, he left."

"That's a lie!"

Mrs. Stevenson looks at Anna, sadly. "It's the truth. He moved out and took an apartment in a singles building. And he began dating a woman who lived in the complex. Meanwhile, I was at home, raising you and your sister, all alone. And whenever your father came to see you, he looked so rested and cheerful, and one time, he even brought that woman with him." Mrs. Stevenson says, bitterly, and closes her eyes for a moment. "So, I decided to punish him. I don't know if you remember Michael Bergman - "

"I remember him."

Mrs. Stevenson pauses a moment, then looks down at her hands. "He was a very nice man. He attended our synagogue and worked with your father. I liked him a lot. And I used him to punish your father." Mrs. Stevenson sort of chuckles in this strange way. "And it worked. Your father eventually crawled back to me. It was the end of the summer and we'd been separated almost a year. And I already knew. I already knew I was pregnant. I hadn't told Michael yet. I almost didn't tell him at all. He was so angry when I told him your father and I were reconciling. He thought the marriage was over."

"But he was married," Anna protests.

Mrs. Stevenson looks surprised. "He wasn't married! He married later."

Anna folds her arms, hugging herself. "You're blaming everything on Dad because he's not here to defend himself. You must have loved him very much," she says, nastily.

"Your father wasn't perfect, Anna. And neither am I. We made mistakes. Selfish, spiteful mistakes. And we paid for them. I'm still paying, Anna. I gave up my own child because Jonathan asked me to. It was a hard choice and I won't say I don't regret it. But it's the choice I made and the choice I have to live with every day for the rest of my life."

"So, what? You wish you'd divorced Dad and married Michael Bergman and started a whole new family? Michael Bergman would have just left you, too. I don't blame Dad for leaving. I can't believe he came back!"

Anna bursts into tears and covers her face, rocking back and forth. Mrs. Stevenson leaps up and runs to her, but Anna pushes her mother away. Then Anna stands and shoves Mrs. Stevenson hard. Mrs. Stevenson stumbles backward, but doesn't fall.

"I don't believe you!" Anna screams. "You're just selfish! You ruin everything! I'm never coming back here! Ever, ever again!" Anna turns and runs out of the living room and out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

I sit very still on the couch as Mrs. Stevenson begins to cry. She hides her eyes behind her hand, but I still see. I don't know what to say. Should I comfort her or find Anna?

"Just go, Shannon," Mrs. Stevenson says, reading my mind.

I rise, slowly, from the couch and begin toward the front door. "I won't tell, Mrs. Stevenson. I'll keep your secret," I promise.

"I don't care."

Mrs. Stevenson's sobs are much louder when I shut the front door. I cross the street to my house and slip quietly through the front door. In the foyer, Anna's suitcase is gone.


	29. Chapter 29

I waste an hour and a half driving around Stoneybrook searching for Anna Stevenson. It wouldn't have been a waste had I found her, or had I had any chance of finding her. But she was long gone before I even retrieved my car keys from my bedroom. The story of Anna's flight is revealed to me by Mrs. Stevenson, who is sitting on her front steps when I pull into my driveway, having given up on ever finding Anna. Mrs. Stevenson's eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, her hair somewhat disheveled. She's waiting on the steps for Abby. Or maybe for Anna to return. I'm not really sure and she doesn't say.

I didn't have a real chance at finding Anna because while I was sitting frozen on the Stevenson's couch, watching Mrs. Stevenson cry, Anna was tearing out of my house, suitcase in hand, intending to go who knows where. As luck would have it, Mrs. Papadakis was backing out her driveway at that moment. Anna jumped in the backseat and shrieked at Mrs. Papadakis to drive her to the bus station. And for whatever reason, Mrs. Papadakis complied. Mrs. Papadakis regretted it once she returned to McLelland and walked straight across the street to tell Mrs. Stevenson what happened. Of course, by then it was too late. Anna's gone. Destination? New Haven, I hope.

Mrs. Stevenson's still sitting on the front steps when I return to my house. I suppose she is waiting for Abby then. I don't know what to do with myself when I'm in the quiet of my own home. Tiffany's still here. I hear her footsteps on the ceiling. I gather my books from the dining room and carry them upstairs. I'm disappointed to see I don't have any new messages on the answering machine. Not from Anna or Wes. It unsettles me. What if Anna does something crazy? She didn't exactly seem in her right mind when she ran out the door. I wonder if that's how I looked in New York when I hurled the vase at Wes. Completely out of control. Not a pretty sight. I call Anna's dorm, but the girl who answers hasn't seen Anna since this morning. She checks Anna's room, but the door's locked and the inside silent. I didn't really expect her to be there yet. It's an hour and a half drive to New Haven by car. The bus will take even longer.

I walk across the hall and press my ear against Tiffany's door. She's talking on the telephone, so I don't bother her. I go back to my room and lay on the bed with my phone resting on my stomach. I dial Wes' number and reach the answering machine. I'm a bit dismayed. He didn't say he'd be going out. Why didn't he call and tell me?

"This is Shannon," I say to the machine. "Where are you? I'm home now. Things didn't go so well with my friend. She's already left town. I need to talk to you. Please call me back." I try not to sound irritated. He's always so interested in where I am and what I'm doing. Well, I'd like to know the same.

I should finish my homework, but instead, I stay on the bed and close my eyes. My mind races, thinking of Anna and Mrs. Stevenson, worrying, and thinking of Wes, and worrying. Across the hall, Tiffany's switched on her stereo and the music shakes the walls. I worry about her, too. In all that worry, my stomach twists into knots, but somehow, I fall asleep. When I open my eyes again, the sky outside my window has darkened and Maria's standing over me, watching me sleep.

"What are you doing?" I ask, groggily.

"It's dinnertime," Maria informs me. "You said we'd go out."

I rub the corners of my eyes and sit up. "I know, I know. But next time, wake me like a normal person. Standing over someone and staring is creepy, Maria."

"You promised we'd go to Bellair's, too," Maria reminds me.

"Okay, okay," I say, rolling out of bed. I check the answering machine, on the off chance I didn't hear the phone ring. No messages. "Is Tiffany still home?" I ask Maria.

"She's in her room."

"Okay. Tell her we're going to dinner. She needs to come with us. I don't want her spending the entire weekend hiding in her bedroom. Decide where you want to eat and I'll get ready."

Maria nods and spins around and goes across the hall to pound on Tiffany's bedroom door. Tiffany doesn't answer, but Maria charges inside anyway. I almost feel bad for Tiffany that I removed her locking doorknob. I close my bedroom door and change out of the clothes I slept in. Then I dial the Stevenson's phone number, but receive a busy signal. Maybe Mrs. Stevenson's on the phone with Anna. Maybe they're working things out. I dial the number to Anna's dorm. I receive another busy signal and fill with a surge of false hope.

I brush my hair and fix my make-up. Across the hall, I hear Tiffany and Maria arguing. I ignore them. Whatever it is, they can fight it out amongst themselves. I'm not in the mood. I grab a coat and quickly stuff my wallet and cosmetics bag into a small purse. Before I leave, I dial Wes' number. The phone rings four times then the machine picks up. Sighing, I hang up. Where is he?

"Time to go," I announce, swinging around the doorway into Tiffany's room. Tiffany's sitting on the bed, grumbling and shoving her feet into grubby sneakers. She's wearing pink sweatpants and a long-sleeved SDS phys ed shirt. I'm not convinced she's brushed her hair today.

But I bite my tongue and don't say anything. Well, nothing except, "Please brush your teeth real quick."

Tiffany compromises by going into the bathroom and gargling with mouthwash. While she's spitting it out in the sink, I spray her with Maria's blackberries 'n' cream body spray that's sitting out.

"Where are we going?" I ask Maria when we're in the car.

Maria latches her seatbelt. "Bellair's first. I already know what I want you to buy me."

"All right."

When we reach Bellair's, Tiffany refuses to leave the car. So, I lock her in and leave her sitting in the dark. I'm not going to drag her out of the backseat and cause a big scene. The store is much busier than when I came with Lindsey and Sally since it's a Saturday night. Maria leads me straight to the cosmetics section.

"Please don't tell me you want a beret with an ostrich feather," I tell her, eyeing the nearby hat display.

Maria purses her lips. "Of course not," she says, seriously. "I've decided it's time to start wearing make-up. So, please buy me some."

I raise an eyebrow. "You want to wear make-up? Have you discussed this with Mom?"

"No. Why would I? I'm asking you."

I stare at Maria, silently, for a moment. "All right," I finally say. "We'll buy you some make-up." After all, I started wearing make-up when I was twelve and Tiffany started when she was only eleven.

I steer Maria to the cosmetics counter of my preferred brand. Maria hops onto the stool and sits very still while the salesgirl matches her complexion. Maria looks like someone new when the salesgirl finishes. She could easily pass for fifteen. Maybe sixteen. It makes me uneasy, seeing my littlest sister in full make-up, looking much too old. But I take out my checkbook and pay for tubes of mascara and eyeliner, three eye shadows, and two lipsticks. Maria seems very pleased, which I suppose is what's important.

Tiffany's turned the light on inside the car when Maria and I return. She's hunched over in the backseat, scribbling furiously on the back of a receipt.

"What are you doing?" I ask her, as I climb into the car.

"Making a list of possible punishments for Tyler," she answers, not looking up.

"Oh. Okay," I reply and start the car. Maybe it'll make her feel better. "Where are we eating, Maria?"

"Pizza Express."

I sigh. "On a Saturday night?" I reply. Pizza Express is a popular weekend hang out. Kristy, Abby, and I have gone on Saturday nights before and it's a zoo. "You don't want to go somewhere else? Somewhere less crowded?"

"No."

I sigh and back out of the parking spot. I ease the car onto Essex and turn in the direction of Pizza Express. There are no free spaces outside the restaurant and as we roll by, I see the inside is packed. I find a spot three store fronts down, which isn't too bad. At least for a weekend night. Maria and I walk together on the sidewalk with Tiffany trailing behind us at a leisurely pace. We squeeze through the entrance, which is crowded with kids waiting for a free table. Kristy and Mary Anne are standing near the front with her coats draped over their arms.

"Hi!" I shout over the all the noise.

Kristy waves. "Hey! Come up here with us!" she calls.

Tiffany, Maria, and I push our way through a group of kids to join Kristy and Mary Anne. I'm surprised to see they're still together. That must have been some fight Mary Anne had with Stacey McGill.

"We can all get a table together," Kristy tells us when we reach them. She looks at Tiffany and wrinkles her nose. "Did you forget to get dressed today?" she asks.

"Who are you to lecture about fashion?" Tiffany snaps.

Kristy holds up her hands. "Sorry, sorry," she says, then shoots me a questioning look, which I ignore.

"Where's Abby?" I ask.

Kristy shrugs. "When we got back this afternoon, Mrs. Stevenson was waiting in our living room with Mom and Watson. She told Abby they had to go home and discuss something important. Mary Anne and I went over there before coming here, but no one answered the door. The lights were on. Did something happen? Where's Anna?"

Dear Lord. Is Mrs. Stevenson telling Abby? Poor Abby.

"I don't know," I tell Kristy and shrug, like I really don't have any idea.

Kristy looks a little suspicious, but Mary Anne distracts her by grabbing her arm. "Kristy, a free booth! Go get it!" she cries and gives Kristy a small shove.

Kristy takes off across the dining room, swooping down into the booth before the prior occupants have even gathered all their belongings. The rest of us follow and squeeze into the booth. Mary Anne and I are on the ends, across from each other with Tiffany, Maria, and Kristy squished between us.

Kristy nudges Mary Anne with her elbow. "This is quite the honor, Mary Anne. We have the privilege of hanging out with Shannon Kilbourne _two_ days in a row. I'm going home and writing about this in my diary!"

Mary Anne glances up from her menu and smiles weakly. At least she doesn't look cranky anymore.

"I have a lot of homework," I tell Kristy, testily, although deep down I feel bad. Kristy, Abby, and I used to be such a tight group. I spent all my free time at Kristy's. But we're growing up and things change. Kristy needs to accept that.

"Let's get the meat lovers pizza," Mary Anne suggests, closing her menu. "No vegetables!"

I don't have a preference and neither does anyone else. So that's what we order, along with a pitcher of root beer. When our waitress leaves, Kristy takes a few quarters out of her pocket and holds them out to Mary Anne.

"Mary Anne, will you slide out and put something on the jukebox?" she asks. "No Nicky Cash!"

"Sure," Mary Anne replies, taking the money. She slides out of the booth and crosses to the jukebox.

When she's out of earshot, Kristy leans forward and hisses, "She won't leave my house!"

I'm staring at Tiffany, who's begun scribbling on a napkin with her hand cupped around it, so no one can read what she's writing. I look away, focusing on Kristy. "What do you mean she won't leave?" I ask.

"I mean, she refuses to go home! Her stepmom came over at eleven o' clock last night, completely ticked off because Mary Anne didn't tell her where she was. She's supposed to be grounded. They got in this huge argument and Mary Anne refused to leave. She actually wrapped her arms around the banister, like Sharon was going to drag her out of the house! Then Sharon started yelling at her and woke up Emily Michelle and David Michael. Watson finally calmed Sharon down and convinced her to leave Mary Anne with us. And I don't think Mary Anne plans to leave any time soon."

My eyes flick over to Mary Anne, who's pressing in her selections on the jukebox. I don't blame her. I wouldn't leave the Thomas-Brewers either, if given the chance.

"Yeah, so we got a lot done today," Kristy says, loudly, as Mary Anne approaches us. A Nicky Cash love song has just started, which makes me laugh and Kristy grimace. Mary Anne slides back into the booth and Kristy continues, "We've almost finished all our research. I still have to find a flight attendant to interview about my future career though." Kristy rolls her eyes. "And Sally still has to find a plumber. Can you believe we spent _all day_ with Sally White? That girl is truly vile." Kristy shudders.

"She's calling me Pigtails" Mary Anne says, pulling on one of the pigtails hanging over the front of her shoulder.

"I told Mary Anne not to give Sally the satisfaction of taking them out," Kristy says and pats Mary Anne's hand. "We invited Lindsey for pizza, too," Kristy tells me. "But her grandparents wouldn't let her come. They said she was gone all day and needed to come home. You should have heard her! Ranting and raving, on and on." Kristy pauses and looks at me, gravely. "You know what it reminded me of?"

"What?" I ask, although I already know exactly what she's going to say.

"That time in tenth grade when Lindsey became convinced, for whatever crazy reason, that I was trying to steal her position on the softball team. I'm a short stop! I don't _want_ to play first base. And I didn't want her slot in the batting line up either. And then, do you remember what happened?" Kristy pauses again and watches me. "She hit me with a _bat_!"

"Not that hard."

"I had to get x-rays!"

"Because Watson insisted," I reply. I stare at my fingernails, thinking. Lindsey really didn't hit Kristy _that_ hard. Lindsey's a power hitter. If she'd really wanted to break something, she would have. And that was a long time ago. Lindsey's been much better since then. Mostly. "She's on new medication. She's not going to hit anyone with a bat again."

Mary Anne pours a glass of root beer from the pitcher the waitress just set on the table. She passes it down to Maria and begins pouring another. "Why exactly is she on medication?" Mary Anne asks.

Kristy and I look at each other. We shrug. "We've never asked," I explain.

"I'm not sure I _want_ to know," Kristy says. "Whatever the reason, her grandparents certainly smoothed the whole bat incident over with Mom and Watson pretty quickly."

"Lindsey Dupree is psychotic," Tiffany says, not looking up from her napkin.

"She is not," I snap.

"Building off the infamous bat incident," Tiffany starts, "do you remember that time in middle school when she spent the night and heard voices in the kitchen?"

Kristy mouth drops open. "I've never heard this!" she screeches.

I point my finger at Tiffany. "That was one time and it was three o' clock in the morning. She was half-asleep!"

Tiffany finally looks up and rolls her eyes at me. Then she returns to her napkin, chewing on the end of her pen.

Kristy stares at me, hard. Beside her, Mary Anne appears slightly disturbed.

"What did the voices say?" Kristy wants to know.

"I don't remember," I reply, irritably. And I really don't. That was years ago. Seventh grade, I think. And we were all half-asleep when Lindsey freaked out and broke the fruit bowl in the kitchen. She told us she heard someone whispering while she stood at the sink, filling a glass of water. Maybe she never told us what the voice said. It was a long time ago. "Ask Lindsey," I tell Kristy.

"And get hit with another bat?"

The waitress brings our pizza then and we dig in. Kristy doesn't say anything else about Lindsey, which I'm thankful for. I don't like discussing her problems in front of other people, not even Tiffany and Maria. And Mary Anne barely knows Lindsey. I don't want her getting the wrong impression. I sprinkle parmesan on my slice and concentrate on eating. Kristy makes Maria do a pizza toast with her, which Maria finds hilarious. I've just bitten into my second slice when I begin to choke.

Wes just walked through the door.

There's a coldness churning in my stomach. I might throw up. Instead, I duck underneath the table.

"Get down!" I hiss. "Everyone get down!"

Kristy and Mary Anne's heads appear under the table. "What are you doing?" Kristy demands.

"I just...I...Sally White just walked in!"

Kristy and Mary Anne slide underneath the table so quickly that both hit their heads on the table top.

I tug on Tiffany's pant leg. "Get down!" I order. "Get under the table!"

Slowly, Tiffany and Maria come underneath the table. "I didn't see Sally White," Tiffany tells me.

"I...I'm sure I saw her," I lie. "Let me check." I poke my head out from under the table to check on Wes. He's leaning against the take-out counter, chatting with a couple middle school boys. I duck back under the table and turn, as best as I can, back to everyone else. We're very cramped underneath the table. "I'm pretty sure it's her. We don't want to take any chances. She's at the take-out counter. She'll be gone soon. We just need to wait her out."

Mary Anne looks confused. "Kristy, didn't Sally say her parents were having a cocktail party tonight?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't put it passed Sally to ditch out on them. She's probably been combing the streets, searching for us! I hope Mom or Watson didn't tell her we'd be here."

A wave of guilt washes over me. I wish I could tell Kristy the truth. But she'd never understand. Just like Elizabeth and Janet. I poke my head out again, very discreetly. Wes is paying the cashier. There are two large pizza boxes on the counter in front of him. I narrow my eyes. What is he doing? Who is all that pizza for? There's a sinking panic in my stomach. Maybe he has another girlfriend! A girlfriend who really, really likes pizza.

"This is so dumb," Maria tells me.

Wes gathers the boxes and slides some money in the tip jar. He turns and starts toward the exit. The boys he was talking to earlier call goodbye to him. He opens the door. I'm almost in the clear.

Three pairs of shoes appear in front of my face, stopping beside our table. Two pairs of white tennis shoes and a pair of red sneakers covered in pink lace and Valentine's Day conversation hearts.

"Hello, Claudia," I say to the shoes.

Claudia Kishi, Erica Blumberg, and their strange blonde-haired friend's heads appear underneath the table.

"You don't have to scrape the gum from under the table," the blonde tells us. "You can buy a pack from the vending machine."

"Shh!" Kristy hisses. "We're hiding from someone!"

"Are you in second grade?" Erica asks, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Kristy, you're hiding under a _table_ in a pizza joint," Claudia points out. "This is...sad."

Kristy scowls.

I feel my cheeks grow warm. This is so immature. I bet everyone's talking about us. "Um...she's gone. We can get up again," I announce, climbing out from under the table.

"Thank God," Tiffany grunts.

Kristy and Mary Anne's cheeks are pink, too. Both sit up very straight, trying to regain a little dignity after sitting plastered against the filthy Pizza Express floor.

"Hello, Erica, Lauren, _Claudia_," Kristy says , coolly. I guess she's still upset with Claudia for vomiting in her car.

"Hi, Claudia," Mary Anne echoes, but ignores the other girls.

"Where's Abby?" Claudia asks us. "I have some business to discuss with her."

"Another party to get drunk at?" Kristy asks. "Who's going to get alcohol poisoning _this_ time?"

"Cokie was already drunk," Mary Anne snaps. "You know that."

Kristy purses her lips. "I _know_. But still, Claudia's track record..."

Claudia rolls her eyes and turns to me. "Abby told me Anna was coming into town this weekend. Where is she? With Abby?"

I shift, uncomfortably, and begin picking at my slice of pizza. Then I remember my hands were all over the floor and drop them to my lap. "I guess she changed her mind," I lie.

"Oh, that's too bad," says Lauren. She straightens her purple and white-checked headband and continues, "We were in orchestra together. I used to play the trombone. You should tell her to call me."

"Yes, I'll do that," I say, dismissively.

There's an awkward silence. Kristy and Mary Anne takes long sips of their sodas. Erica picks some lint off her teal-colored corduroy jacket. It's very cute. I wonder where she bought it. I bet Wes would like me in it. I'm about to ask where she bought it when Claudia picks up a slice of our pizza and bites into it, then while chewing asks Tiffany, "What are you writing?"

Tiffany doesn't look up. "I'm plotting revenge on my ex-boyfriend," she explains.

"Does he have a car?" Lauren asks.

"Oh, time to go!" Erica cries, hooking her arm through Lauren's and pulling her away.

"Yes, it _is_ time to go," Lauren agrees as she's dragged off. "I have to go home and feed my cat."

Claudia takes a drink of Mary Anne's root beer. "See you later," she says and follows after Erica and Lauren, still eating our pizza.

"Claudia," Kristy sighs, shaking her head.

"That blonde girl's weird," I tell them.

"She and Erica fraternize with the enemy," Mary Anne says, bitterly. "_Stacey_."

O_kay_.

"Why don't you guys go wash your hands," I suggest. "Tiffany and I will save the table."

Mary Anne, Kristy, and Maria slide out of the booth and head toward the bathroom. I watch them disappear down the hallway. Then I turn to Tiffany and pluck the pen out of her hand.

"You don't need to exact revenge on Tyler. The best revenge is living well."

Tiffany grabs the pen back. "Okay, yeah, thanks, Grandma Kilbourne," she says, sarcastically. Grandma Kilbourne died long before we were born. It's not like I'm quoting her.

"Keying his car or spreading rumors about him won't solve anything, Tiffany," I tell her, seriously. "And it won't make you feel any better. Tyler hurt you and you can't avenge that. You'll hurt for awhile, but in the end, you must move on. Or else you're only going to cause more problems for yourself. Trust me, punishing him for hurting you won't help."

Tiffany grunts.

When the others return, I go and wash my hands. Tiffany doesn't come. She's stopped writing finally after filling two napkins. I can't imagine what she was writing out. She stuffs the napkins into the pocket of her coat and doesn't take them out again. She spends the rest of the time staring into space, glowering at nothing. Our pizza has grown cold. The rest of us pick at it, making small talk. Kristy and Maria do most of the talking. Mary Anne listens. I half-listen, but my mind is on other things, other people.

My parents are home when Tiffany, Maria, and I get back. Dad's locked in his study. As we pass by the french doors, I see him sitting at his desk with a tumbler in front of him, turning the pages of one of his enormous law books. Upstairs, Mom's in their bedroom, talking loudly on the phone and laughing. Tiffany, Maria, and I slip into our own rooms and shut the doors.

There are no new messages. Not from Anna. Not from Wes. I sit on my bed with the phone in my lap, staring down at it and worrying. What if something's happened to Anna? I dial the Stevenson's house. The answering machine picks up after the second ring, but I don't leave a message. I dial the number of Anna's dorm, but only reach another busy signal. Then I call Wes.

"Hello, Wes? This is Shannon," I say to the machine when it picks up. "Where are you? Why haven't you called me? I'm home again. Call me whenever you get in."

I hang up.

The phone rings immediately, causing me to startle. I take a breath and pick up the receiver.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Shannon?"

"Anna!" I exclaim, gripping the phone tight. "Anna! Where are you? I looked everywhere for you! Are you all right?"

There's a long silence. "Of course I'm not all right," she finally answers, flatly. "Didn't you hear those lies my mother told?"

I bite my lip. I never considered how this conversation would go. "Anna..." I start, gently. "I don't think they were lies. I...I believe your mother. I think she's telling the truth."

Silence.

"Where are you, Anna?"

"I'm in Danbury at Adelaide's. I took the bus here. My mother's already tracked me down, so you don't have to worry about tattling to her."

"I wouldn't do that," I protest, although, honestly, I know I would.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm okay," Anna tells me. Her voice is still flat, but she doesn't sound angry. "And I'm not coming home for Thanksgiving. I'm coming back to Danbury with Adelaide, then we're going to Long Island. We're going to find Michael Bergman."

I nearly drop the phone. "What?" I shriek.

"I need the truth and Dad's not alive to tell it to me. Michael Bergman's the only other person who really knows."

"Are you insane?" I demand. "What does Adelaide think of this? Put her on the phone!"

"No. You don't need to talk to her."

There's a scuffling on the other end, like someone's grabbed the phone. I hear muffled voices arguing, then a door slam.

The next voice I hear is high and squeaky. "Anna is totally off her rocker!" Adelaide shouts at me. "I don't know what's happened to my clear-minded, sensible roommate. I've shoved her into the hall and locked the door, so she can't take the phone away. She's totally lost her head. I don't know what to do with her!"

I bite my lip. I don't know either. "Are you really going to Long Island next weekend?" I ask.

"Not if I can help it!"

"Anna will calm down in a few days," I assure Adelaide. "She isn't thinking clearly. She learned some things today that she can't accept yet." I know Anna and Abby idolize their dad. It's much easier to villainize their mother, who is still alive and not the most attentive parent. "She told you everything?" I ask.

"Some version of it."

I snort. I wonder what Anna left out and glossed over. "I believe Mrs. Stevenson," I tell Adelaide. "She made mistakes and so did Mr. Stevenson. Not anyone's completely at fault."

"I figured."

"Keep an eye on Anna. Promise me," I say. "Don't let her do anything stupid."

"I won't."

We talk awhile longer until Anna begins pounding on Adelaide's bedroom door. Then we hang up. I walk downstairs and stare out the dining room window at the Stevenson's house. It's dark. Not unusual. But maybe tonight it is. Where are Abby and Mrs. Stevenson? Maybe Mrs. Stevenson's on her way to Danbury. Maybe she'll bring Anna back. I fold my arms across my chest and continue staring. Then I angle my body, so I can see down the street to the Thomas-Brewers'. Almost all their lights are on. I'm sure their house is noisy and chaotic like always. I wonder what they're doing. But no way am I walking down there to find out.

Upstairs, the shower turns on. By the loud banging of the cabinet doors, I know it's Tiffany. Good. She'll take a shower, get cleaned up, and feel more like her old self. Finally, I tear myself away from the window and return to my bedroom. I take out the book we're reading in World lit, a collection of short stories by Anton Chekhov. I've just finished the first story when the phone rings. I jump quickly to answer it.

"Hello!"

"Hello, Shannon?" Wes answers.

"Where have you been?" I demand.

There's a short pause. "I was out. You told me you'd be with your friend all day. I've been gone most of the day. I just now got home and listened to your messages. You sound...irritated."

"Where were you? Who were you with?"

There's another short pause. "I was at school for a couple hours. I'd forgotten Friday's tests there. I graded the tests, then went over to Mark's house. Mark, my roommate from Stoneybrook U.? His wife is out of town and he invited a couple of us over. Is that...okay?" Wes asks, unsurely.

I realize how accusatory I sound. I'm acting crazy again. I'm going to scare him off, just like I did in New York. I manage to control my tone. "Of course that's okay. I was just worried," I tell him.

"Well, next time I'll call and tell you where I'm going then. As long as you do the same."

"Of course. I'm glad you care."

"Well, you are my girlfriend," Wes says. "So, what happened with your friend? Why did she already leave?"

"It's a long story," I say with a sigh. I should never have doubted him. I must learn to control myself better. "But she isn't coming home for Thanksgiving, so that means I'll be able to go to your parents' house." I decided that earlier while crouched beneath the table at Pizza Express. Wes needs to know I'm as committed to this relationship as he is.

"Really? That's great, Shannon. My parents will be so excited to meet you."

"I'm excited to meet them," I reply, which is partially true. I'd like to meet Wes' parents, but I don't want them telling other people about me. That's what parents do. They talk about what their kids are doing and who they're dating. Normal parents, at least. "What are you doing now?" I ask Wes. "I've had a terrible day and I need to see you."

"I'm not doing anything. Come over."

So I do.


	30. Chapter 30

Thanksgiving Day the Kilbourne family scatters. It isn't surprising. When are we ever together? Meg Jardin's parents are having a big Thanksgiving party at their house, so that's where Mom and Dad head at eleven. In separate cars, which makes sense. They lead separate lives, why arrive anywhere together and continue the charade? Besides, Dad might meet a caterer who looks like Kathleen Turner. It would be pretty awkward for Mom to sit in the backseat while Dad drives them to a motel.

Across the hall, Tiffany and Maria are readying for the Thomas-Brewers. I am, of course, preparing for Wes and meeting his parents. I'm so nervous my hands shake as I pull my violet silk dress up over my hips. I haven't eaten all morning. If I eat, I may throw up.

Kristy knows I'm not coming to her house. And she isn't happy about it. I lied to her, of course, another lie in a long string of lies. I never used to be a liar, but now they flow from me, effortlessly, and fall into a perfect line. Sometimes even I believe them and that scares me.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Tiffany asks me, leaning against my doorway, arms folded. She looks much better these days. She's brushing her hair again and no longer moping. And although Tyler's called all week, she hasn't once answered.

"No. I'm going to Allie's. We have that huge project we're working on," I tell Tiffany, running a brush through my hair. Allie and I are in European history together. She's a junior and has never, ever spoken to Kristy. Allie is my safest lie.

"Homework on Thanksgiving? Yeah, right," Tiffany says, then turns and walks away.

I frown at her retreating back. I would tell her the truth, but she wouldn't understand. I wish I had a better lie to tell. Lindsey would cover for me, but the Duprees left yesterday for Hartford. That's where they're originally from. So, I couldn't claim to be spending Thanksgiving with them. There really is no one else. No one else who would understand and protect my secret.

At eleven-thirty, I stand at the front door and wave to Tiffany and Maria as they cross the street. Maria, wearing all her new make-up, smiles at me and waves happily. Tiffany just narrows her eyes, suspiciously. I keep waving, pretending not to notice.

Across the street, there's no one home at the Stevenson house. I watched from our dining room window yesterday afternoon as Abby and Mrs. Stevenson loaded their suitcases into the back of Mrs. Stevenson's minivan. They're off to Long Island for the long weekend. I haven't spoken to Abby in days. Yesterday was the first time I saw her. I've had no verbal confirmation, but I know that Mrs. Stevenson told Abby the truth. The truth about herself and Mr. Stevenson and Michael Bergman and their baby. I know this because Abby hasn't been to school all week. She's been locked in her house, not answering the door or returning phone calls. Mrs. Stevenson hasn't been to work either. I only know this because Tuesday after school, I saw her in the front yard dressed in jeans and stepping through the flowerbeds. I have no clue what she was doing.

I haven't spoken to Anna either. I call her dorm, but she won't come to the phone. I've spoken twice to Adelaide. The plan to track down Michael Bergman's still on, which Adelaide's not thrilled about at all. I can't imagine how it will turn out. Not well, I suspect.

The phone rings in the kitchen and I hurry to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Shannon!" Kristy exclaims. "Have you changed your mind yet?

"No. I'm sorry, Kristy. I already made plans," I reply. Why must Kristy be so persistent?

"But Charlie's here and we're going to organize a big football game. Charlie and Watson are in the backyard picking teams right now. Look, I know you and Janet have some kind of beef, but you can't let her keep you away from my house forever. I know she's _annoying_ - " Kristy says "annoying" very loud, then there's grumbling in the background. Janet must be listening in - "but there are a lot more _interesting_ and less _grouchy_ people here. And Janet's parents and grandpa are on their way over for lunch, so they can all sit together in a corner and you won't have to worry about Janet bothering you."

"Kristy, I - "

"Oh, wait," Kristy interrupts. "Janet has a message for you. She says you're behaving like a child and that that proves her point."

"You can tell Janet - "

"You can come over and tell her yourself. I'm not a telegram service."

I bite my lip and pull on the phone cord. "Maybe later. But I promised Allie."

Kristy sighs. "Oh, all right. Mary Anne's coming over later, too. I think she's going to her grandma's or something. I don't know. She was really vague about it."

"Mary Anne's become kind of...odd."

"She's not the only one."

There's a brief, awkward silence, then we say our goodbyes and hang up. I feel bad. I feel guilty. But not nearly enough to swallow my pride and walk across the street. Not nearly enough to give up Wes. So, I walk upstairs and collect my coat and purse, checking my reflection once more to ensure that I am perfect. I don't want to just please Wes. I want to please his parents, as well.

I'm supposed to be at Wes' by noon. It'll be about a thirty minute drive to his parents' house in Greenvale. There's no traffic through downtown Stoneybrook. Everything except the movie theater closes on Thanksgiving. I pull into the parking lot of Wes' apartment complex a few minutes before noon. It's a very gray day and the complex is eerily quiet as I step out of the car. I slide my purse strap over my shoulder and begin up the walkway toward Wes' building. When I turn the bend to building F, I see two little girls in lilac-colored coats and lacy white dresses and stockings, matching white headbands in their brown hair. They're sitting on the bottom step of the stairs that lead to the apartments above Wes'. The littler girl has a Barbie in her hands, twisting its head around and biting her lip. The other girl is striking matches and tossing them onto a pile of dried leaves, then stomping out the flames with her white patent leather shoes.

I stop in front of them, staring. "Are you...are you Jenny Prezzioso?" I ask the older girl.

She glances up and strikes another match. "Who the hell are you?" she demands.

"I...I..." Of course, Jenny doesn't recognize me. I rarely ever baby-sat for her. Plus, that was years ago. "Does your dad live upstairs?" I ask her.

"Yep," Jenny replies and stomps on a flaming leaf.

It all makes sense. Upstairs Guy and his screaming brats. The refrigerator that somehow fell through the window. Who could they have been but the Prezziosos? "Um...does your dad know you're down here, playing with matches?" I ask.

"Nope. He's upstairs on the phone with his whore."

His _whore_? I stare at Jenny, aghast.

Andrea's still twisting around her doll's head. She mumbles something.

I bend down. "What was that, sweetie?"

"I don't want to live in the basement," she whispers.

The _basement_?

"Shannon!" Wes exclaims, opening his front door.

"Nice seeing you girls again," I say, quickly, and grab the matches from Jenny's hand, then hurry passed.

"Hey!" Jenny shouts after me. "Doucheface! Yeah, run away and get on your knees!"

Wes pulls me inside and shuts the door. "Never talk to those little girls," he tells me. "They're the reason I can't let Darth into the courtyard anymore."

I'm still staring at the closed door, absolutely appalled. Dear Lord. What has happened to those poor children?

Wes kisses me and encircles my waist with his arms. "I can't wait for my parents to meet you," he tells me, smiling. He kisses me again. "They're going to love you. Just like I do."

"I hope so," I reply, although there's a knotting in my stomach. Maybe this isn't such a good idea.

"You look so beautiful," Wes says, releasing me and stepping back. "You know how much I love that dress on you. I'm so glad you wore it. I have something for you!" Wes disappears into his bedroom. He returns carrying a small jewelry box. "This is for you," he tells me.

"Oh! Thank you!" I say, surprised, taking the box from his outstretched hand. I open the box slowly. Inside is a pair of oval-shaped earrings. "Oh, thank you, Wes," I gasp. "Tanzanite, right?" I ask, touching the pale violet gemstones.

Now Wes looks surprised. "You recognize it?" he asks.

"Of course. Geology is one of my passions, you know," I answer, removing one of the silver flowers from my ear. "Tanzanite's mined in Tanzania and it's actually zoisite, which is a mineral."

"Oh, well, they were purple," Wes tells me. "Do you like them?"

"Yes! Thank you so much! I love them," I assure him, sliding one of the earrings into my ear. "They're perfect." When both earrings are in, I pull Wes in for a kiss. "Later, I'll show you how much I love them," I promise.

Wes' cheeks turn slightly pink, but he looks very proud of himself. I am lucky. I can't believe how lucky.

The Prezzioso girls are gone when Wes and I leave the apartment hand-in-hand. Wes holds the car door open for me, like always, then we drive away from the Birch Street apartments and eventually from Stoneybrook. It's a nice, quiet drive, except for when Wes decides to sing to me. He's so silly sometimes. But he keeps me laughing despite the fact that my stomach becomes knottier and knottier the closer we come to Greenvale. At least Wes is excited.

I don't know why Wes seemed so impressed with my house. His parents' house is ten times more impressive. I think my mouth may gape momentarily when we make a sharp turn around the hill and the house comes into view. The Ellenburgs live in the middle of nowhere, among the lush green hills of Greenvale, isolated from the rest of the town. The house is surrounded by tall wrought-iron gates and the house itself is a sprawling Tudor-style with a pitched roof and mullioned windows. Wes pulls around the circular driveway, coming to a stop near the front of the house. I remember when we first met and Wes called Mick's grandparents' house "disturbing". I wonder now if Wes has ever taken a good look at his own house.

"There must be a lot of money in sailboats," I comment, still staring at the house.

Wes shrugs.

"It's beautiful."

"It's all right."

I take that as a cue to not say anything more about the house. I've never known anyone who's self-conscious about _having_ money. But Wes can be shy, so maybe the subject simply embarrasses him. I unlatch my seatbelt and reach over to squeeze his hand.

Wes squeezes back. "Before you meet my parents, there's something you must know," he tells me.

My stomach knots a little tighter.

Wes laughs. "Don't look at me like that! It's nothing _bad_." He laughs again. "I just want you to be forewarned that my father _will_ be wearing a captain's hat and he _will _request that you call him Skipper. You really, really don't have to. In fact, I sort of prefer that you don't." Wes sighs. "My father can be so embarrassing."

I laugh. That's it? Does he remember _my_ father and my father's hooker? "That isn't a problem," I tell him and open my door.

As we walk up the stone-paved steps, Wes slips his arm around my waist. "And my mother _will_ ask you a million questions and I apologize in advance for any discomfort she causes."

That really doesn't help the knots. I worry silently as we approach the door. I don't need Mrs. Ellenburg asking a million questions. I would prefer she ask no questions at all. I manage a cheery smile as the front door swings open and Mr. and Mrs. Ellenburg appear. They're both beaming.

Mrs. Ellenburg throws open her arms as she steps across the threshold. "Welcome!" she cries. She's tall and slender with short, perfectly coifed white hair that sweeps over her left eye. She's dressed very elegantly in a black and white pin-striped pantsuit with chunky jade jewelry. "Wesley!" she exclaims and takes his face between her hands and kisses both his cheeks, then she turns to me and throws up her arms again. "And Shannon!" Mrs. Ellenburg pulls me into a hug. When she releases me, she holds me at arms-length, studying me, still beaming.

"She isn't a bug under a microscope, Mom," Wes says, a little irritably.

Mrs. Ellenburg releases her grip on my forearms. "Of course not," she says, breezily. "I apologize. I'm just so ecstatic to meet you!" she cries and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the doorway. "Come on, dear, let's get you inside. It's far too cold out here. This is the Skipper, of course," she says, as we move passed Mr. Ellenburg, who's standing just inside the foyer.

I recognize Mr. Ellenburg from the Ellenburg Marine Supply commercials. He looks exactly the same, except there isn't a parrot on his shoulder. He's a big, beefy man with a bushy white beard. He's wearing khaki pants and a white polo shirt and - as Wes promised - a captain's hat. He looks very jolly, sort of like a mall Santa.

Mr. Ellenburg grabs my hand and shakes it in a tight grip. "I'm Wesley's dad," he tells me in a deep, cheerful voice. "No need to call me Mr. Ellenburg. Everyone calls me Skipper."

Behind him, Wes closes his eyes, looking very exasperated.

Mrs. Ellenburg playfully swats Mr. Ellenburg on the chest. "His real name is Dennis," she tells me, "but everyone really does call him Skipper. And I'm Molly. Molly Ellenburg, Wesley's mother."

"I think she figured that out, Mom," Wes says.

Mrs. Ellenburg laughs. "I certainly hope so! No, I'm just some crazy lady who accosts the guests at the front door!" Mrs. Ellenburg laughs again and Mr. Ellenburg joins in.

It's all a bit overwhelming.

"Your home is marvelous, Mrs. Ellenburg," I say, politely.

"Oh, please, it's Molly," she replies. "Wesley take her coat, please. Then I'll show Shannon the rest of the house. What do you call it, Wesley? An appalling centerpiece to the greed and self-gratification of Connecticut spoiled society?"

"Something like that."

Mrs. Ellenburg chuckles. She has a lovely laugh. "The house was my Great Aunt's," she tells me, touching my arm, lightly. "Wesley has always detested it. Even when he was a little boy. Come now, I'll give you the grand tour." She links her arm through mine and pulls me away from Wes and Mr. Ellenburg. "My Wesley is positively enchanted by you," she whispers as we sweep into the formal sitting room.

How am I supposed to respond to that?

"I'm very fond of him, too," I say, lamely.

"Good, good!"

We tour the ground floor with Wesley trailing behind us. The house is truly breathtaking. I've never been interested in architecture, but even I recognize the house as a masterpiece. I would adore living here. I don't understand what Wes finds so appalling.

Mrs. Ellenburg shoos Wes away at the bottom of the staircase, instructing him to track down Mr. Ellenburg and keep him out of the kitchen and the food. Wes looks a bit warily at his mother before turning and walking away.

"I don't know what he's worried I'll say to you," Mrs. Ellenburg says, starting to climb the steep staircase. "You're a junior at Stoneybrook University?" she asks me.

"Yes."

"It's a wonderful school, although we so wanted Wesley to go away for university. It's such a growth experience. And he was so shy back then. But the Skipper was diagnosed with that kidney disease and Wesley insisted on remaining here. He's such a good boy." Mrs. Ellenburg looks at me over her shoulder. "I'm a Vassar girl myself. From back when it was still a women's college, of course. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but the Skipper's a Harvard man. So, do you plan to stay in Stoneybrook or will you be moving on to greener pastures?"

We've reached the landing and Mrs. Ellenburg has turned to watch me, intently, probing me with her eyes. "I really don't know," I lie, although Wellesley's still on my mind. I'll likely be there in less than a year. I haven't told Wes. Like I haven't told him many things.

"Oh, well..." says Mrs. Ellenburg with a weak smile. "If you don't know, you don't know. Come now, here is Wesley's room straight across the hall."

I follow her, brow furrowed. What exactly was she asking me? Did I answer incorrectly?

"Oh..." I say when I enter Wes' bedroom and glance around. It is...not as I expected. "I guess...Wes really enjoyed _Star Wars_," I observe, hesitantly.

"Yes, and _Star Trek_," Mrs. Ellenburg replies, gesturing to a display case filled with action figures.

It's difficult to hide my surprise. Wes - my handsome, sweet Wes - was...a nerd. I pick up a photo off the desk. I barely recognize Wes standing between his parents at his high school graduation. He's very skinny with a mouthful of braces and black horn-rimmed glasses.

"The braces were removed the summer after graduation," Mrs. Ellenburg explains, watching me. "Then he had laser eye surgery and after that he just - " Mrs. Ellenburg holds out her hands, "blossomed before our eyes."

I smile and return the photo to the desk.

"Let us return downstairs now," Mrs. Ellenburg suggests, taking my hand, leading me out of the room. "The Skipper will consume the entire turkey if Wesley doesn't pay attention."

We find Wes and Mr. Ellenburg in the den. Mr. Ellenburg's lounging on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table. Wes is perched on the edge of a high-backed, uncomfortable looking chair. He rises when Mrs. Ellenburg and I enter.

"I saw your bedroom," I tell him.

Wes groans.

"You knew that's where we were going," Mrs. Ellenburg admonishes him. "Don't act so shocked and put out. Certainly she's been to that teeny apartment of yours. Nothing can be very surprising after that."

Mr. Ellenburg turns around on the couch. "I bet you've been unfortunate enough to meet that damn cat, too! Molly and I danced through the house in celebration the day we dumped that thing off at his place. He didn't even try to return it!"

I smile, slightly. "Yeah, I don't like the cat either," I say in a whisper.

"Ha! I told you, Wesley!"

Mrs. Ellenburg presses gently on my back. "Come, let us see about lunch, Shannon. Wesley, set the table with Aunt Betsy's china. The one with the blue aster pattern. Skipper, stay here."

As I follow Mrs. Ellenburg into the kitchen, I hear Mr. Ellenburg say, gruffly, "Poor girl probably can't get a damn word in edgewise."

The Ellenburgs seems like perfectly nice people, but I'm beginning to see why Wes was so hesitant to tell them about me.

Mrs. Ellenburg sets me to work mashing the potatoes while she moves the rest of the food from the stoveand oven onto serving plates. All the serving spoons are silver with intricate floral and heart designs. Polishing them must be a pain. I know Mrs. Ellenburg doesn't do it herself. Wes told me there's a full-time housestaff, but the Ellenburgs let them off for holidays.

"I am very pleased to meet you, Shannon," Mrs. Ellenburg tells me, spooning the dressing onto a crystal serving plate. Tiny flowers are etched along the sides. "It is so rare that Wesley introduces us to the girls he dates. I'm not sure if there's been anyone since Chelsea." Mrs. Ellenburg looks up for confirmation and I shake my head, assuming Chelsea was Wes' serious girlfriend. They broke up a year and a half ago. He never told me her name. "Wesley has always been so shy," Mrs. Ellenburg continues. "He didn't start dating until his junior year of college. And unfortunately, it was that crazy Cory. Oh, that girl." Mrs. Ellenburg shakes her head.

I don't allow my face to reveal that I am in the dark. I know Wes dated some girl on-and-off throughout his junior year. He never told me her name either. He never said anything about her. I wonder if she's the one who liked to throw things at him. "Mrs. El - I mean, Molly," I say, tipping the mashed potatoes into a clean bowl, "I assure you, I'm not crazy."

She laughs. "Oh, I hope not! Certainly you can't be any crazier than crazy Cory. Oh! All the time, breaking up and getting back together! Every day it was something new. When she gouged his neck with her fingernails, that's when the Skipper and I said, 'no more, you either break it off once and for all or we're moving you out of the dorms and back home'. It took him a few years to completely recover from her. Then he met that Chelsea and she was a real piece of work. Has he told you about her?"

"Not too much."

"Well, he wouldn't and he doesn't want me to tell you either," Mrs. Ellenburg says, wagging her finger. "I know my son. But I also know that you need to know. That Chelsea ripped his heart out and stomped all over it. She destroyed him. She's a nurse over at Stoneybrook General and she slept with the _entire_ male staff of the ER. The Skipper and I fretted that he'd never move on. And now, here you are."

"Here I am," I echo, feeling the lowest I've ever felt in my life. She doesn't know it, but Mrs. Ellenburg has effortlessly reduced me to dust. "I love him," I tell her because really that's the only truth I can offer. And I'm not even convinced it is the honest truth. I need him and that may be the same as love.

"I'm so pleased," Mrs. Ellenburg says in her breezy voice and smiles. "I hope he makes you happy, Shannon." Her smile sort of flickers. "You are very young though. Please don't hurt my son." Mrs. Ellenburg picks up the serving plate and leaves the kitchen, leaving me alone to feel wilted and nauseated.

I force a smile onto my face as I carry the mashed potatoes into the dining room. Wes and Mr. Ellenburg assist in carry the dishes to the dining table, although Mr. Ellenburg appears to be doing more eating than anything else. The dining table seats sixteen, but Mrs. Ellenburg has us set up at one end of the massive table. When the four of us are seated and served, we say grace, then begin eating.

"So, Shannon," Mr. Ellenburg says to me, "what do your parents do?"

I freeze in mid-bite of a piece of yam. I lower my fork, my mind turning. I can't tell the truth, can I? Mom's a real estate agent. Her picture's in the real estate sections of every newspaper in the area on every Sunday. Her face is on a billboard outside Mercer. How easy for them to ask around about Kathy Kilbourne's oldest daughter. And Dad. Most of his friends live right here in Greenvale.

"Well, my dad drinks a lot," I answer. I don't think before I say it. It just slips out.

Mr. and Mrs. Ellenburg stare at me, stunned, forks poised to their mouths.

But they don't ask anything else about my family.

The rest of Thanksgiving lunch passes uneventfully. Wes loosens up, apparently deciding that his parents won't say anything too embarrassing and that I won't think they're freaks. I like the Ellenburgs. I understand why Wes - usually - speaks highly of them. If circumstances were different...if I could allow myself to imagine it...I could see a future with Wes, in this house, with his family. I think we would be very happy.

After lunch, Mrs. Ellenburg serves coffee and pumpkin pie in the formal sitting room. Wes and I sit on the love seat, close together with Wes' arm draped around my shoulders. He sets his plate on his lap, so he can eat his pie without letting me go of me. Mrs. Ellenburg sips her coffee and smiles at us, sort of vacantly. I'm wondering if she likes me.

"So, Shannon," Mr. Ellenburg says, setting his empty plate on the coffee table, "does Wesley call you twenty times a day?"

Wes chokes on his pie.

"Dennis!" Mrs. Ellenburg exclaims, sharply, swatting him on the leg.

"Well, the last one - "

"_Dad_," Wes says, agitatedly.

I pat Wes' knee. "Wes doesn't call me any more than I want him to," I assure Mr. Ellenburg.

Mr. Ellenburg doesn't appear convinced. Mrs. Ellenburg sips her coffee again, her face revealing nothing.

"Hey, Mr. El - um, Skipper, where's the parrot?" I ask to break the silence. "From the commercials?"

"At the store," he answers and jerks a thumb toward Mrs. Ellenburg. "She won't let him in the house."

"Oh, that bird is a menace!" Mrs. Ellenburg exclaims. "It's worse than the cat!"

Wes and I stay another hour. It's mostly pleasant, although Wes is obviously still peevedat his dad. I wish I could tell Wes I understand because his mother explained about Chelsea and I am nothing like her. But am I? I'm not sure. Maybe I'm no better. But maybe I'm no worse.

I assure Wes on the drive back to Stoneybrook that I enjoyed myself and liked his parents. He assures me of the same, then gently quizzes me about what his mother said to me upstairs and in the kitchen. I don't tell him what I know. He can tell me on his own, if he chooses. The day is still gray when we reach his apartment complex. Gray quickly turning black as night falls. It's cold out and I walk with my arms wrapped around Wes' waist. I try to not worry about his parents and what they may learn about me. Do they even know my last name? I never said it. I made a point not to.

I worry still that our time is short. Wes may learn the truth and hate me. What will I do then? I can't even consider him not loving me. I don't forget my earlier promise and as soon as we're inside the apartment I pull him into the bedroom. I intend to thank him properly for my gift. I intend to show him how much I love him and hope he'll remember when he needs to.

I don't mind sex so much anymore. It's gradually getting better. I enjoy certain aspects of it. I like that I excite Wes and that he wants to be with me. I like feeling protected underneath him. I like the gentle way he touches and kisses my breasts. And I especially like afterward when it's over and he holds me tight. But most of all, I like knowing that the more times I let him make love to me, the deeper he becomes committed to me, and with that, it becomes harder and harder for him to leave.

Wes is on top of me, thrusting inside me when the pounding starts on the ceiling. Little feet running back and forth. Only for little feet, they make an awfully loud noise. Wes pauses and looks up at the ceiling. "What's going on up there?" he asks, breathlessly.

"Who cares," I reply, just as breathlessly. "Keep going," I tell him because as awkward as it sometimes feels, it also feels pretty good.

Wes obeys and continues. He makes those odd little grunting noises I've come to love and I match them with my own.

Then a piercing ring comes through the ceiling and someone screams.

"What the hell?" Wes shouts, looking up again.

I sit up on my elbows, also staring at the ceiling. "I think...I think it's a fire alarm."

Wes rolls off me and grabs his boxer briefs. "Those little girls!" he yells, stepping into the underwear. "Just what I need. Those kids burning my apartment down. Stay here. I'll go check it out." He zips up his pants and picks his shirt up from the floor as he hurries out of the bedroom.

The alarm is still ringing. I press my hands over my ears and fall back onto the pillow. This is so predictable. Just when I was starting to almost enjoy myself. The alarm switches off. In the distance, I hear a siren wailing toward us. Then I hear the front door open and Wes sweeps back into the bedroom.

"Okay, I have to move," Wes tells me. "That little girl upstairs set her father's bed on fire."

I sit bolt straight up. "She _what?_" I demand.

"She told me it was a bed of lies and sin. The fire's out, but the fire department just pulled up. I don't think we'll have any peace and quiet for awhile."

I sigh, heavily. What a wonderful end to Thanksgiving.

"Want to go outside and watch?" Wes asks and from the expression on his face, I know he's dying to go back outside.

"Sure," I answer, swinging my legs out from under the comforter. I slip into my panties. "Do you have a shirt or robe I can borrow?" I ask Wes. I'm tired of wearing that dress.

Wes tosses me a shirt from the closet and I slip into it, buttoning the buttons as I follow Wes out of the bedroom. Wes flicks on the patio light and we step outside, the evil cat rushing through the sliding glass door after us. Outside, there's a fire truck parked at the edge of the parking lot, its lights spinning in the darkness. All Wes' neighbors are out on their porches and balconies, standing around and staring. Suddenly self-conscious, I try to smooth down my hair, which I realize is quite disheveled. Wes stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. He kisses my neck.

"Isn't this exciting?" he asks. "See what you get with me? Dinner _and_ a show."

I giggle, then discreetly shield my face when Mr. Prezzioso rushes passed with the fire marshall. I hear him say, "Can we keep this quiet? I don't want my girlfriend to know."

Surely, that is the least of his problems.

"Maybe they'll lock those brats up and I can let Darth into the courtyard again," Wes whispers in my ear.

I giggle again. Then I glance out across the courtyard. My giggles die in my throat.

On the other side of the courtyard, bathed in the bright glow of the balcony light, there's a girl leaning against the railing with a pair of binoculars poised in front of her eyes. She isn't watching the Prezziosos or the firemen. Her binoculars are trained on me. From behind the binoculars, all I see is her shoulder-length blonde hair and her white and purple-checked headband. That's all I need to see. My breath is still caught in my throat as she lowers the binoculars.

She smiles and waves.


	31. Chapter 31

I am living on borrowed time.

At the moment, I am floating somewhere between concealment and revelation and at any moment will be pulled into the light for all to know my lies. Any minute. Any time. My good luck and good fortune are fast running out.

I am a wreck. Ever since Thursday evening, I have done nothing except fret and worry. I am sick, sick, sick. I've been caught and it's not like being caught by Anna or Janet. That girl has no loyalties to me. That girl doesn't even know me. And by the way she smiled so smugly, I know my secret will not remain a secret for long. She could tell a million different people. And then everyone will know.

Every time the telephone rings, I am overtaken by a nauseous churning in my stomach. It could be Wes. It could be Kristy. It could be anyone and they could know. All my lies and deceptions are about to come crashing down and I will be crushed beneath the wreckage. The end is near. I knew it would come someday. I couldn't stay ahead forever, always outrunning who I really am.

Thursday evening, I stayed at Wes' until midnight. I waited until I saw all the lights turn out across the courtyard. And my luck hasn't completely run out yet because in the morning Wes called to say he was going to his parents' for the day. He invited me, but I declined, even though I want to fill up my life with Wes, now that our time's quickly running out. But another day with his parents? I can't do that. Not when there's this nauseous churning in my stomach. I can barely wrap my arms around Wes without throwing up.

I spend Saturday with him. Wes wants to go out. I tell him it's too crowded. I can't risk being seen in public with him. Our time is short enough. On a busy weekend like Thanksgiving weekend everyone and anyone is out roaming the streets. Wes and I are confined indoors, like it or not. Wes doesn't press the issue of going out. He gives in to me. Maybe when the truth is told it won't matter. I've been a good girlfriend. I've proven my love to him again and again. As often as he wishes me to prove it. That must count for something. It must.

"What do you know about that girl?" I ask Wes. I'm standing at the sliding glass door, staring out at the courtyard. The blonde-haired girl is climbing the stairs to her apartment with an older girl, a brunette, following behind her.

Wes comes to stand beside me. "That girl? Uh...her name's Laurie, or something like that. She's always on her balcony with a pair of binoculars. That's why I keep the curtains closed. When we went to - " Wes is interrupted by the telephone ringing. "Let me get that," he says and leaves me standing alone at the sliding glass door. "Hi, Mom," he says into the receiver.

The churning begins again. I don't breathe as I listen in. But there's nothing abnormal about Wes' side of the conversation. Mrs. Ellenburg isn't calling to say, _"Do you know what I found out about your girlfriend?"_ I release my breath and resume breathing normally. I step away from the sliding glass door and pull the curtain closed. That girl isn't spying on me anymore today. I won't provide her with further ammunition.

"That was my mom," Wes tells me, as he hangs up the phone. "She wants to know if you're coming with us to Miami over Christmas."

"Miami?" I repeat, sinking down onto the couch.

"Didn't I tell you? We alternate each year. Last year, we stayed in Connecticut for the holidays. This year, we're going to Miami. You know how my parents like to compromise. So, do you want to come? Mom thinks she'll still be able to find you a seat on our flight. You don't have to stay the whole week, of course. You could fly out after Christmas, if you like. I know you probably want to spend the actual holiday with your sisters. And, uh, your parents."

"Oh, um..." I don't know what to say. I want to say yes, of course I'll go. A week in Miami with Wes with no possibility of being unmasked. That would be a dream. But by the time Christmas comes, will Wes know the truth? Maybe. Probably. Will he care? Maybe. Probably.

Wes looks disappointed. "You don't want to come?" he asks.

"No! I mean, yes, I want to come. Of course, I want to come. But...but...well, my little sisters..." I let my voice trail off. I still don't know what to say. So, I say the worst thing I possibly can, as that's typical of me these days. "I'd love to come. Call your mom back."

"Really? Great!"

I stare down at my hands, biting my lip while Wes makes the call. What am I doing? I have no control over myself anymore.

"My parents are really pleased," Wes says when he hangs up again. He sits down at the other end of the couch. "They want to get to know you. They know how much I care about you." Wes reaches over and takes my hand. He strokes my palm with his thumb.

"Did they like me then?" I ask.

"Of course."

"Because...because..." I start, hesitantly. "Well, I got sort of a weird vibe off your mom a couple times. I wasn't sure if she liked me."

"Oh," Wes says, flatly, dropping my hand.

"What?"

"It's just that..." Wes says, taking his hand back. "She thinks you're sort of...young."

My stomach plummets to my toes. Mrs. Ellenburg suspects! It's an effort to keep my voice calm and controlled. "What do you mean...young?" I reply, casually.

"Well...you're only twenty. I told her, six years isn't a big deal, especially since you seem older. Sometimes. Mom's worried that you don't plan to stick around Stoneybrook. I've had some, uh, bad relationships and Mom doesn't want me making a big commitment, then get hurt again. But then, she's also worried that you'll make a big commitment to me and stay in Stoneybrook, then regret it. Are you...are you planning to leave?"

"No."

Wes breathes a sigh of relief. "I told Mom that. You would have told me, otherwise. I mean, if someday, when you're done at Stoneybrook U. and you want to go away for graduate school, that's still a long way off. We'll talk about it then," Wes says, reaching for my hand again. Then he frowns slightly and adds, "Uh...Mom also thought that comment about your dad was weird."

"Oh," is all I say. I stare down at Wes' hand entwined in mine, his thumb moving slowly across the skin of my palm. I've lied so much it doesn't feel wrong to add another to the line. Wes can think I won't leave him and I can pretend he won't soon leave me. And maybe he won't. I can pretend that, too.

* * *

Two hours later, I walk into a quiet, dark house. Tiffany's at work and there's a note on the refrigerator from Maria saying she, David Michael, and the Papadakis kids took the dogs to a nearby park. Who knows where my parents are? Who cares? I open the refrigerator and take out a bottle of apple juice, then lean back against the counter, drinking it slowly, feeling the coldness slide down my throat and into my already cold, churning stomach. Sometimes I feel like crying. But I don't.

The telephone rings.

I sigh and cross the kitchen, figuring it's Kristy. She's probably been spying on me again from her bedroom window. I didn't hear from her all day yesterday. I know she's mad about Thanksgiving. I don't need a lecture. Not now.

"Hello?" I say, already a bit exasperated in preparation for my verbal lashing.

"Shannon?"

"Yes?"

"This is Mary Anne. Mary Anne Spier."

I'm surprised. Has Mary Anne ever called me? Not since the days of the Baby-Sitters Club. I narrow my eyes in suspicion. Is she across the street, watching me, too? Is she calling to do Kristy's dirty work?

"I hope it's okay for me to call on the house line," Mary Anne is saying. "I don't have your private number. I got this number out of the phone book."

I wonder if she's lying. No. What would be the point? "It's okay," I assure her. "I was already in the kitchen anyway." I lean my shoulder against the wall and add with a hint of suspicion, "Are you at Kristy's?"

"No. I'm at Pete's house."

My eyes widen. Pete Black? I thought they broke up. In fact, I know they did. Months ago. Kristy told me. "Are you and Pete back together?" I ask.

"No!" Mary Anne exclaims, irritably. "We're not back together!" Her voice softens slightly. "We're just hanging out. Pete knows a lot about..." Her voice trails off.

"Oh."

"Yeah, so, we're going out. I mean, Pete and I aren't going _out_ out. But tonight we're going to Washington Mall to see a movie. Kristy's coming and so is Pete's friend, Ross. You know Ross. Do you want to come with us?"

It's a good thing Mary Anne can't see me. She might be offended by the shock registering across my face. We really aren't friends. I don't understand why she's calling me up and asking me out. Oh. It dawns on me. That Kristy! She's too stubborn to call me herself. She _is_ making Mary Anne do her dirty work.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes. I'm still here," I answer. "I have to pick Tiffany up from work at ten."

"That's okay. The movie will be out by then. Cam Geary's new movie opened yesterday," Mary Anne says, dreamily. "I'll call Kristy and tell her to pick you up in half an hour. Then you guys can come over to Pete's and get us. After the movie, we'll bring Tiffany back to Stoneybrook with us."

"Oh. Okay. That sounds fun," I tell her. It does sound fun. Kind of. It will take my mind off Wes and everything for awhile. Then a thought occurs to me. "Hey, that Paul kid isn't coming, is he?" I ask, warily.

"No! Not him or his two-faced sister!" Mary Anne shouts, then slams down the phone.

Mary Anne's bizarre.

I run upstairs and take a quick bath. I'm afraid I might smell like sex. I smell a bit like sweat and Wes' cologne at least. I towel off and begin picking through my closet. I always dress up for Wes. I'm tired of that. I pull on a pair of dark blue jeans and a thin mint green sweater, then I rummage through the disaster area that masquerades as Tiffany's bedroom until I find her white suede jacket. After a fast hair brushing and make-up refreshing, I call Wes to let him know where I'll be. Then I leave a note for Maria and rush out the front door, where I stand on the porch, waiting for Kristy. In earlier weeks, I would have walked over to her house, walked right in the front door without knocking. A lot has changed since then.

In a couple minutes, Watson's Suburban backs out of the garage. I sigh, heavily when I see Kristy in the driver's seat. She's borrowed the Suburban simply to irk me. She _knows_ I detest riding in the Suburban when she's driving. Dear Lord, she can barely see over the steering wheel!

"Hi, Kristy," I greet her, hoisting myself into the passenger seat. There should be a step ladder or something.

"Hello," Kristy replies, dully, not looking at me. Instead, she's concentrating on the rearview mirror as she messes with her barrette. It's emerald green with tiny gold flecks.

"I like your barrette," I tell her, latching my seatbelt.

"Janet left it at my house," Kristy replies, throwing the car into reverse and backing up much too quickly. "On Thanksgiving. But you weren't there, of course," Kristy says. "You missed a lot of fun. You also missed a lot of fighting, but that was just Sam and Janet. The usual." Kristy turns the Suburban onto Bissell Lane. "Sam wants a divorce."

I look up from my purse, where I've been searching for a tube of hand lotion. "What?" I reply. "Are you serious?"

Kristy shrugs. "I overheard him tell Mom and Watson. It was after everyone left. Sam was crying. He told them that Janet said she'd never give him a divorce because she wants to devote her life to making him miserable. Now Mom and Watson are fighting. Mom says they never should have gotten married in the first place - Sam and Janet, not Mom and Watson - and that it's Watson's fault for telling Sam to marry her."

I shift, uncomfortably. I'd forgotten about that. Watson was the one who said Sam needed to do the right thing and marry Janet. When Janet refused to have an abortion, her parents agreed and pushed for marriage too. Elizabeth pushed for an abortion, then adoption, until the end. I suspect that's at the root of her dislike for Janet. It's not that Janet's solely to blame for the pregnancy, but what happened afterward was mostly in Janet's power.

"I'm sorry," I tell Kristy.

Kristy shrugs again. She doesn't speak for a couple minutes, not until we're at the stop sign at Forest Drive and Reilly Lane. "I'm sorry, too," she says, quietly.

"For what?" I ask, surprised.

"For whatever I've done to make you mad at me."

"I'm...I'm not mad at you."

"Then why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not. I'm just - "

"Busy, I know," Kristy says as we roll across the intersection. "I don't know what you're so busy with though. You never help out with the Smart and Sober club anymore. Amanda Kerner and I are doing all the work. And I know you're not helping Lindsey on the yearbook. Don't worry, she didn't tattle on you. But she's always at your guys' station by herself after school. I've seen her on my way back and forth from the newspaper office. And you're always doing your homework before school and before class and during lunch. Where are you all the time? Abby says you're not at the library. Unless, of course, Abby's not really at the library every minute of the day either. Then both my best friends are lying to me."

I fold my arms across my chest and look out the window as we turn onto Fawcett Avenue and pull up to a white two-story house with a red front door and black shutters. I recognize Ross Brown's Jeep Cherokee in the driveway beside a gray Saturn. Kristy and I don't speak again. The front door opens and Mary Anne and Pete come out, holding hands. Ross is behind them. I met Pete Black a couple times last spring when he was dating Mary Anne. Even though I'm beyond high school boys now, I think he's very good looking. He's at least a foot taller than Mary Anne with thick, wavy brown hair. He and Mary Anne make a cute couple. Maybe they're getting back together, despite Mary Anne's effusive protests to the contrary.

Pete opens the door behind my seat and pokes his head in. "Do you want to take my car, Kristy?" he asks.

"No," she replies. "I can drive."

Pete hesitates. "Are you sure?" he asks. "This car is kind of big and...are you sitting on a phone book?"

"No! I'm not sitting on a phone book, Pete Black! Now get in the car before I run you over!"

Pete complies, climbing into the car and sliding across the bench seat. Mary Anne and Ross climb in after him. Everyone says hello as they latch their seatbelts. I notice Mary Anne's taken her hair out of the pigtails. It's clipped back with two pink plastic heart-shaped barrettes. She's wearing jeans and a white parka with a fur-lined hood.

"Pete, you remember Shannon," Mary Anne says, as Kristy pulls away from the curb.

"Oh, yeah...you're Shannon," Pete replies.

I turn around. Mary Anne and Pete are holding hands again. "Yes, I'm Shannon. We've met before," I tell him.

"Yeah...I thought so."

There's a strange silence.

Ross leans forward. He's sitting behind me. He clears his throat. "How was your Thanksgiving?" he asks. "Isn't it great? Four days off from school!"

"I had a good Thanksgiving. And yes, it's nice having time off from school. But I'm looking forward to getting back," I answer. "Did you all have a nice Thanksgiving?"

Pete nods and Ross says, "Yeah." Mary Anne doesn't say anything. She just scowls.

I turn back around and resume my earlier search for my hand lotion. I start pulling things out of the purse, piling them on my lap, but there appears to be no lotion. "Do you have any lotion?" I ask Kristy. "My hands are really dry."

"I do," Mary Anne says. I hear her purse zip open, then she leans forward and gives me a small bottle of pear-scented lotion.

I squeeze some into my hand, then give the lotion back to Mary Anne. Pete's staring at me. Maybe I don't want him and Mary Anne to reconcile after all. He might be a creep. I turn around again, rubbing the lotion into my hands. I don't understand why no one's talking. Well, I know why Kristy isn't. She's upset with me. Mary Anne promised this would be fun. It isn't.

"It's too bad Lindsey's out of town," I finally say, directing my comment at Ross, even though I'm still facing forward.

"Oh, yeah," Ross says. "Lindsey's really nice. Her grandparents are crazy strict though. They hardly let us actually go out. We hang out in her living room a lot. That's...okay. I guess."

Kristy finally looks over at me, frowning. I can tell she's thinking the same thing I am. I frown back at her.

"But they're letting me take her to SHS's Winter Ball," Ross adds.

"Oh, good!" I exclaim. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Ross' earlier remark wasn't so bad.

When we reach Stamford, the Washington Mall parking lot is packed. We park about forty miles away from the entrance. It's beyond freezing outside. I zip up my jacket and regret not bringing earmuffs or a scarf. Or even gloves. The others remembered all those things. Except Pete pulls on a hat that matches his scarf. He informs us that Mary Anne knitted both for him. He sounds very proud of her. Then he starts staring at me again and I give him a nasty look. Ross is very nice and lets me wear his earmuffs.

Inside Washington Mall it's even more insane than the parking lot. Kristy actually links arms with me so we won't get separated. Ahead of us, Mary Anne and Pete are hand in hand again.

"Are they..." I whisper and jerk my head toward Mary Anne and Pete.

Kristy rolls her eyes. "Oh, Mary Anne doesn't know what she wants," Kristy answers, testily.

The five of us ride the escalator to Cinema World on the fourth floor, where we buy our tickets for the seven-thirty showing of _Boy Town Confidential_ starring Cam Geary. I've seen the previews and the movie looks hideous. Mary Anne's the only one who actually wants to see it. Kristy and Ross stick their fingers down their throats and make loud gagging noises while the cashier prints our tickets. I take a step away and pretend I'm with the elderly couple at the next window.

The movie doesn't start for another hour and a half, so we take the escalator back down to the food court. Long lines stretch out at every food stand. The place is a madhouse.

"If we go to Hot Dog On A Stick," I tell everyone, "Tiffany will give us a bunch of free food."

No one ever passes up free food, so that's where we head. Tiffany's behind the counter at the register with three other girls and a lone boy. We wait in line for ten minutes before reaching her register.

"Hey!" Tiffany yells when we step up to the register. "You never come visit me at work! Hey, everyone, this is my sister!" she shouts at her co-workers, turning around. "This is my sister, Shannon!"

One of the girls stops pumping the handle on the lemonade maker. She glances up at me. "She doesn't look like a genius," the girl says, coolly.

My face grows hot.

"A lot you know," Tiffany snaps, then turns back to us. "May I take your order, Shanny?" she asks.

Pete and Ross laugh, which only makes my face hotter. That stupid baby name must die.

Kristy brushes aside my embarrassment. "We need five large cherry lemonades," she tells Tiffany. "Four cheese on a sticks and ten hot dogs on a stick."

"_Ten_?" Tiffany repeats, then punches some buttons on the register. "Okay, I'll only charge you for five. And for three drinks."

While we wait for our order, Mary Anne leaves in search of an empty table. When our drinks and the cheeses are ready, Pete and Ross take them and go off to find Mary Anne. Kristy and I wait for the rest of the order. I wait for her to interrogate me again, but no interrogation comes.

I start playing with a napkin dispenser, watching Kristy out of the corner of my eye. "So, Kristy..." I begin, then pause to consider whether I should ask. "Um...what do you know about that blonde friend of Claudia and Erica's?" I ask, casually.

"Lauren? I know she likes to get people in trouble."

Oh, well, that's fabulous.

I've completely lost my appetite by the time Kristy and I cross the food court with our trays. We find Mary Anne and the boys near Tortilla Queen, seated at a large square table. I set my tray on the table and start passing out the food. Kristy does the same. At first. Then suddenly, her mouth drops open.

"What?" I ask.

"Let's move," she says. "Come on. I don't want to sit here."

"There's nowhere else, Kristy," Mary Anne snaps.

"What's wrong?" I ask again, then begin glancing around. What did Kristy see? Or rather, _who_? My eyes fall on them. They're back near the restrooms in a secluded corner at a table for two. She's feeding him chili fries with her fork. Greer Carson. My ex-best friend. And Mick Stone. My ex-boyfriend.

All five of us are staring at them now.

"Who is that guy?" Mary Anne wants to know.

"Didn't we stick that guy's head in a toilet last summer?" Pete asks Ross.

"We'll go somewhere else, Shannon," Kristy tells me, stacking the food back onto the trays.

I tear my gaze away from Greer and Mick. I won't let anyone know my true feelings. I smile, pushing everything aside, hurt and anger, disappointment in Greer. "No, it's fine," I reply, still smiling, taking the food off the trays again. I slide into my chair. Even though I have no appetite, even though I want to throw up more now than I did ten minutes ago, I bite into a corn dog.

Kristy frowns at me. "Are you serious?" she demands. "You're going to sit there and eat a corn dog? Aren't you _mad_? Greer is a snake, just like Mick. You should be mad or hurt or _something_."

I shrug and take a sip of lemonade. It's difficult to swallow. "I'm fine," I say. I open a package of ketchup and squeeze it onto a napkin.

"They're really close to the restroom. Pete and I could put his head in a toilet again," Ross offers.

I shake my head.

"If you won't do anything, I will," Kristy announces, standing up. She storms across the food court, lemonade in hand.

"No, Kristy!" I call after her.

Kristy doesn't listen. As she approaches Mick and Greer, she removes the lid from her lemonade cup and tosses it onto the floor. Mick and Greer don't even notice her when she stops beside their table. They don't notice her until she dumps her lemonade in Mick's lap.

"What the hell!" Mick screams, jumping up.

Greer doesn't have a chance to react. Kristy picks up her chili fries and smashes them on Greer's head. Then Kristy turns and walks back toward us.

"Kristy Thomas!" Greer shrieks, leaping out of her chair. "You immature little bitch!"

Kristy slides back into her chair, smirking. I look over at Greer and Mick. Greer's trying to pick fries out of her hair while simultaneously drying off Mick's lap. She always was obsessed with that particular region of his body.

"Dude, that was awesome, Kristy!" Pete exclaims. He and Ross are laughing hysterically.

"Who is that guy?" Mary Anne asks again.

"Thanks a lot, Kristy," I say, tightly.

"You don't need to thank me," Kristy replies. "Something had to be done. You've let Mick and Greer stomp on you long enough and - "

"Kristy," Ross interrupts, "I think she was being sarcastic."

I toss down my napkin and push away from the table, rising. "Yes, Kristy, I was. Thanks _a lot. _Now Mick and Greer think I sent you over there to do my dirty work. Like you send Mary Anne to do yours! Now they think I'm angry, that I _care._ That's really all I need right now, Greer and Mick telling all of Stoneybrook that I'm not over him. That I'm bitter and spiteful. Now everyone's going to talk about me, so _thanks._" I shove my chair out of the way and stalk off, forgetting my purse and jacket.

Over all the noise, I hear Pete say something like, "Everyone's already talking about her," and Mary Anne says, "Knock it off," and Kristy says, "What?" and I keep walking.


	32. Chapter 32

I'm halfway down the escalator when I hear Kristy calling my name. I stay focused straight ahead, staring at the blue perm of the old lady in front of me. Kristy's voice nears, still calling to me, and I realize she's running down the stairs between the up and down escalators. She reaches me and stops running, instead taking the remaining steps slowly, so we are side by side. I can't move. I can't run away. I'm stuck.

"I'm sorry," Kristy says. "I was trying to help."

"You didn't."

"I was sticking up for you because you're my friend," Kristy tells me. "And because you won't stick up for yourself. Have you even _spoken_ to Mick since he dumped you like garbage into the can? You let him get away with being a jerk. I didn't."

"If I needed your help, I would have asked for it," I snap.

"No, you wouldn't."

I step off the escalator and attempt to disappear into the crowd. I don't know where I'm going without my purse and jacket. I just go. I don't lose Kristy though. She's little and squeezes through the crowd effortlessly. She catches me outside Power Records and shoves me inside. I stumble backward and almost fall into a Great Blue Whales display.

"What's wrong with you, Kristy?"

"What's wrong with _you_?" Kristy counters, angrily. "What's wrong with everyone? I've tried to be a good friend to you, Shannon. And you've treated me horrible for weeks. I don't know what I've done to you. But it doesn't even feel like we're friends anymore. Everyone's falling apart. Greer and Meg turned out to be jerks. Lindsey's a total wacko. Abby has me as confused as you do. It's like I don't even have friends anymore."

"You have Mary Anne," I point out. My voice has a nasty edge to it. I know Kristy is right.

"Mary Anne is only hanging around because she's mad at Stacey McGill!" Kristy replies, furrowing her brow and frowning. "I'm a back up friend because Mary Anne's not speaking to pretty much anyone at SHS. She's mad at all her friends there, so she runs to good old Kristy. We're replacements, that's all. I'm a poor man's Stacey McGill! You can be Grace Blume. Congratulations on that accomplishment!" Kristy spins around and runs out of the store. She disappears into the crowd.

A couple kids nearby stare at me, but they glance quickly away when they notice me noticing them. I square my shoulders and walk out of the store, stride confidently into the sea of people, in the opposite direction Kristy ran. I keep my head held high and my face impassive. Maybe Kristy's anger is justified. Maybe I am a horrible friend. But I have bigger things weighing on me now. Things Kristy would not understand. So any guilt and remorse I feel for Kristy, I push it down and lock it away in that special dark place within myself.

My confidence rattles briefly as I approach the Washington Mall front entrance. I see Claudia Kishi at a pay phone with Erica Blumberg. They're wrestling over the phone, laughing, while simultaneously shouting into the receiver. Their blonde friend, Lauren, is with them, leaning on her elbow against the pay phone, talking to a blonde ponytailed girl on the other side. I pause for a moment, freezing in place, wondering if I should go over there and demand she keep her mouth shut. She doesn't realize what she could do to my life. Or maybe she does. I don't know which is more dangerous.

Someone knocks into me hard and rubbing my shoulder, I continue on. The girls at the pay phone don't see me. They pass the phone around, still laughing and shouting at whomever's on the other end. I lift my head again, high, and breeze through the entrance doors, the chilly evening air shocking me straight in the face. I breathe in, deeply, cooling inside and out. I sit down on a bench, take another deep breath, and hug myself. I shouldn't have worn such a thin sweater. What was I thinking? What am I ever thinking these days?

One of the doors swings open and Mary Anne comes through. She's holding my purse and jacket.

"You forgot these," she says, setting them beside me. She sits down, the purse and jacket between us. "I figured you'd want some fresh air. It's so cold out here." Mary Anne flips up her hood. "Kristy's really upset."

"Well, so am I," I reply, testily.

"I know," Mary Anne says, "and you don't have to worry. Pete can handle Lauren. They're really good friends."

My head snaps up. "What?"

Mary Anne looks surprised. "Oh..." she says, her surprise turning quickly to discomfort. "I thought you realized."

"Realized what?" I demand and my stomach sinks because I think I know. I'm not very smart, am I? Not lately. Not anymore.

"I thought you heard what Pete said. I thought you figured it out."

"Everyone's already talking about me," I say, quietly. How stupid I am. I hear no one but myself. "You know."

"Pete told me earlier today."

I stare at Mary Anne, fighting hard to reign in the emotions fast rising within me, threatening to break their lock, break free to be released into the light of the world. Into the dim light of the mall overhang. But I keep them down, fighting them and pushing and they do not escape. I keep my face impassive, my voice calm and measured. "So, that's why you called me," I say.

"Pete, Ross, and I, we didn't know what to do."

Ross knows? Does everyone know? Something swells inside me, burning on fire. Everyone's already talking about me. Everyone. "So, you brought me out," I say, voice still calm, "to parade around like a circus freak."

"Of course not!" Mary Anne protests, voice ringing high in the chilled air. "We didn't know what to believe! We didn't know...we thought..."

"Get away from me, Mary Anne. Go inside with your real friends. I saw them by the pay phone. You can all have a good laugh at my expense. Laugh at what you don't understand. You're just jealous because you're miserable and I'm happy and in love."

Mary Anne stands and slides her hands into the pockets of her parka. "You don't look very happy," she observes. "And no one's laughing at you. We all feel sorry for you." Mary Anne turns and pushes back through the front doors. I see her through the glass, walking away in her white parka with its hood still pulled up. Then she's swept into the crowd and she's gone.

The bus comes then and pulls up to the curb. I've never ridden the bus, but the sign lit up over the windshield reads "Stoneybrook", so I gather my purse and jacket and sprint toward it. I deposit the fare as I climb the steps, then find a seat in the back, far from everyone else. I watch out the window as we pull away. Outside, the windows of all five stories of Washington Mall burn bright. I stare out at them until the bus turns a corner and the light vanishes into the night.

* * *

I am alone.

The house is empty and dark. And cold. I walk through the ground floor, through all the rooms, holding myself, listening to the silence. I've forgotten about Tiffany. I've forgotten about Maria. How will Tiffany get home? Where is Maria? Why am I always the one to worry? It isn't fair. And I don't know where my parents are.

It's nine o' clock.

Maybe I should look for Maria.

I grab my purse off the coffee table and cross the foyer to the front door. I lock it behind me. McLelland Road is empty and dark and cold like my house. I walk over to the Papadakises, but their house is as dark as mine. The Kormans live on our other side, but their house is just as dark. Isn't anyone home anymore? But I bet they're all out together as a family. I bet their parents care about them.

I stand on the curb outside my house and stare across the street at Kristy's. I wonder if Kristy's there, or if she and Mary Anne and Pete and Ross saw the movie after all. Did they move past me, brush me aside like my parents do? They think they can judge me. Who needs them? I don't. I have Wes. For now. For now I have Wes.

I'm stepping off the curb to cross the street to Kristy's when I look across the street, straight across. A window on the second floor of the Stevenson's house is illuminated, bright, cutting into the night. Mrs. Stevenson's minivan isn't in the driveway. There's just that lone light, calling for me like a beacon. I hurry across the street and up the Stevenson's circular driveway. The front porch is dark and I trip over one of Abby's muddy sneakers, laying forgotten on a step. I start to press the doorbell, but reconsider and try the doorknob. It's unlocked.

No lights are lit on the ground floor, which I already knew. I would have seen them from the street. I stand at the bottom of the stairs and look up. The upstairs hallway is dark, as well, but to the left, I see a dim light spilling out. Slow and quiet, I walk up the stairs and on the landing, turn left toward the light coming from Anna's room. Her door is wide open.

Anna's on the bed, laying face down, arms hanging off the end. I almost scream, thinking she is dead. Then I see Abby, sitting in the corner beneath the window, knees folded to her chest, staring at Anna, then at me.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Abby shrugs. Anna says nothing. She doesn't acknowledge my presence in any way, instead remaining face down on the bed.

There are a million questions I want to ask. A million answers I need to hear.

"Where's your mom?" I ask. "How did you get home?"

"We drove," Anna answers, voice muffled by the comforter.

"Mom went for take-out," Abby says.

"Where's Adelaide?"

"Danbury."

We're getting nowhere.

"Just ask what you want to ask," Anna tells me. "Abby knows everything. Mom told her."

"Oh," I say, even though I already knew. I glance over at Abby, who's now refusing to meet my gaze.

"Are you okay, Abby?" I ask. "I'm really sorry."

Abby shrugs, still not looking at me. She concentrates on Anna's music stand. "I'm more forgiving than Anna," she says, simply. "And I'm tired of discussing it."

I shift from one foot to the other, suddenly sorry I came over at all. The discomfort is thick, suffocating, pulling all the oxygen from the room.

"I found Michael Bergman," Anna tells me.

"You actually went?" I gasp, covering my mouth. I didn't think she'd do it. Not Anna. Not sensible, reasonable Anna. "What happened?"

Anna turns her head, so she's no longer talking into the comforter. She stares at me, unblinking, face expressionless. "He was very surprised to see me," she says.

Well, obviously. What did Anna expect?

"He's remarried. He has two little kids. Lucas and Ginny. They're cute," Anna says, dully, still not blinking. "Mom was right. He's a very nice man. He confirmed her story. Then he called Mom and told her to come get me." Anna finally blinks. It's a long blink and for a second, I think she's fallen asleep. Her eyes open again. They're drooped and bleary. "My father was an awful man," she says. "He left us."

I look over at Abby to check her reaction. There isn't one. She's still concentrating on the music stand, mouth set in a firm line.

"He wasn't awful," I assure Anna. "Whatever happened between your dad and mom had nothing to do with you. He left her, not you. And he came back."

"He made her give our sister away," Anna says. "And she did it. She's just as awful as him."

"Shut up!" Abby shrieks, finally tearing her eyes from the music stand. "Just shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

"Don't tell me to shut up," Anna snaps, although her voice doesn't rise. "Stop defending her. How can you? After all she's done? Shannon doesn't know everything. She doesn't know - "

"No, no, no!" Abby screams and drowns out whatever Anna has to say.

I shift, uncomfortably, again, glancing from sister to sister. Anna, pale as a corpse, and Abby, wild-eyed and furious.

"I'm your twin," Anna says. "You should be on my side. I've never hurt you. I've never lied or cheated. I'm not the reason you aren't - "

Abby leaps to her feet. "Shut up!" she screeches and hurls a plastic pencil box at Anna, hitting her on the shoulder. "Just _stop_."

And Anna is silent.

"I'm sorry, Shannon, but you need to leave," Abby informs me, striding briskly toward me, and hooking her arm through mine. She drags me out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

"Is Anna all right?" I ask, which is such a dumb question. Obviously, she's _not_ all right.

"She isn't thinking clearly," Abby says, curtly. "We think Gram Elsie put something in her tea. She wasn't being very cooperative when it came time to leave Long Island."

The front door opens just as Abby and I reach the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Stevenson walks in with a large brown bag in her arms. The foyer fills with the scent of chinese food.

"Oh!" Mrs. Stevenson says when she sees me. She's flicked on the foyer light, so the pink flushing her cheeks is visible. "Hello, Shannon," she says, sort of tight and strained. Her tan pantsuit is wrinkled.

I can't quite meet her eyes, like she can't meet mine. "Hello, Mrs. Stevenson," I reply, edging toward the door. "Bye, Abby. I hope Anna feels better." Then Mrs. Stevenson moves aside so I can rush out the door and down the drive. The door shuts behind me. I hear the deadbolt turn.

The lights are on at my house. When I go inside, I hear music drifting down from Maria's bedroom. I take the stairs and walk through her open bedroom door.

"Where have you been?" I ask, irritably. "You're supposed to leave a note."

Maria's stretched across her bed, the newspaper spread open in front of her. "I was at David Michael Thomas'," she tells me, simply, like that makes it all right. "You should have known."

"Well, I didn't," I snap and whirl around and stomp into my own bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I throw myself down on the bed. I have three new messages. I press play and listen, face down in the pillow. All three are from Wes. He loves me and misses me. I don't have the will to pick up the phone and call him back.

Downstairs, the front door opens and swings against the wall. The door slams and feet thunder up the stairs. I roll over onto my back, although I'm not interested enough to get up and investigate. But I don't need to. Tiffany flies into my bedroom, face twisted in fury. My first thought is, _Dear Lord, she knows._ My second thought is, _I will kill Mary Anne Spier._

"Thanks so much, Shannon!" Tiffany shouts. "I had to take a cab home!"

I sit up and check my watch. "I thought you didn't get off until ten," I reply.

"Marsha let me off early. Kristy told me you left. She said not to expect you to come back. What the hell, Shannon? You just leave me at the mall?"

"I'm sorry."

"That's helpful," Tiffany replies, nastily, then spins around and storms out of my room. Across the hall, her bedroom door slams.

I lay back down. She'll get over it. I have worse problems than Tiffany having to take a cab. Like that my entire life could fall apart at any moment. It's already falling apart. All my lies slowly unraveling. Uncoiling like rope to hang me.

I close my eyes and time passes. I don't know how much. I've fallen into a half-sleep, partially aware and partially not. I'm jarred out of it by a fist pounding on the front door.

"Who is it?" Maria yells, running into my bedroom.

I jump up and push her out of the room. "Go back to your room," I order. "I'll see who it is." I grab a badminton racket leaning against the wastebasket in Maria's room as I hurry passed. I pull her door shut.

The pounding continues as I creep down the stairs. I check my watch. It's after ten. Maybe it's just Dad, drunk and locked out. It's not too early for that, I don't think. Badminton racket raised, I peer through the peep hole. I scream and jump back. There's an eye pressed against it.

"Open this door!" Kristy shouts and pounds again.

I breathe a sigh of brief relief. It's only Kristy. My relief doesn't last long. It's quickly replaced by irritation. Who is she, pounding on my front door at ten o' clock at night, demanding to be let in? Hasn't she bothered me enough today? I don't need her heaping any more guilt on me.

I turn the lock and open the door a crack. "Kristy, can we talk tomorrow?" I ask, not hiding my irritation.

"I just came over," Kristy replies, "because I need help on my math homework and heard you know a helpful teacher."

I drop the badminton racket. It clinks softly on the tile. Kristy shoves her way through the front door, knocking me in the face. She doesn't apologize. I don't expect her to.

Kristy shuts the door and locks it, like I might try to escape.

"Mary Anne told you," I say. My voice shakes. I can't control it.

"No! Erica Blumberg did. In the bathroom at Cinema World. Apparently, she thought I already knew. Then Claudia came screeching out of a stall, yelling at Erica to shut up. Erica wanted to know if I'd like to be apart of the vote everyone's taking tonight on whether or not to call the cops!"

My hand flies to my mouth. Oh. Oh. Dear Lord. Dear Lord. I never expected this. The cops? _The cops?_

"This is a mistake, right?" Kristy demands. "Lauren Hoffman's just a big fat liar, right?"

I lower my hand. No more lies. "You don't understand," I whisper.

Kristy's head practically explodes. "It's _true_?" she shrieks. "All this time...all these weeks...after school and the weekends...oh my gosh - _New York_!" Kristy stares at me, expression flickering between rage and horror. "You lied to me! You lied to everyone! All this time...I've been wondering what I did to _you_ and you've been...you've been...sweating up the sheets with some pervert!"

"Wes isn't a pervert!" I shout back, regaining my voice. "He doesn't...he doesn't know. He thinks I'm twenty. That's what I told him."

"What!" Kristy screams at me.

"Don't call the cops. Wes hasn't done anything wrong. He loves me. We're in love."

Kristy stares at me, glowering. Her nostrils flare. "You're an idiot, you know that, right?" she informs me. "Janet knows, doesn't she? Does my mom know, too? Did _everyone_ know but me? Me, one of your best friends."

"I knew you wouldn't understand! I knew you'd do just this - yell at me and judge me! _You don't understand!_"

"You're right. I don't understand. I don't understand how you could be such a complete and utter _moron_. You're having sex with a teacher! And lying about it! To him, to everybody! Oh my gosh, Shannon. He's a _teacher_!"

"He isn't my teacher."

"Well!" Kristy scoffs. She sounds just like her mother. "I hope the sex was good. For both of you. I hope it was worth him losing his job and you losing your self-respect and your reputation!"

I don't say anything for a moment. I stare at Kristy as she glares at me. The air has grown hot and heavy. Suffocating. Like in Anna's room. Silence fills the space around us. I don't know what to say. I knew Kristy wouldn't understand. I may throw up. I may pass out.

"Don't call the cops," I say, voice lowering again. "Please. Kristy. Please."

Kristy doesn't soften. "You've run out of good will and favors with me," she says, coldly. "Go plead with Lauren. Go beg Pete."

"Kristy..." I whisper.

"Mom and Nannie took Emily Michelle up to visit my aunt and uncle. Otherwise, I'd go tell Mom right now. I may tell Watson. I'm putting a stop to this, Shannon. You're too stupid to do it yourself." Kristy pauses and bites her lip. "We were supposed to be friends," she says, then she starts to cry, slowly, tears breaking free and trickling down her cheeks. She turns and runs out the door, leaving it open behind her.

I don't call after her. I don't move. I stay planted where I am, rooted to the tile, weighted down by guilt and lies. In the distance, in the quiet of the night, I hear the front door of Kristy's house slam shut.

I turn then and see Tiffany and Maria standing at the top of the stairs. I'd forgotten them again. They stare down at me. Maria bursts into tears.

"How's that glass house holding up?" Tiffany asks, icily.

Maria races off down the hall. Her bedroom door slams. The lock turns. Tiffany stares at me a moment, then also turns. She disappears into the bathroom and locks the door behind her.

And I am alone.


	33. Chapter 33

Kristy Thomas is attempting to drive me insane.

I know it.

Sunday passes without incident. No visit from the police. No visit from Watson or Elizabeth. I keep away from the windows, but I know Kristy stays out of her front yard. She's avoiding me. Snubbing me. Punishing me.

So are Tiffany and Maria. We don't talk. An eerie silence has overtaken the house. We move through the rooms without acknowledgment, breezing through like ghosts. Maybe that's what I am. A ghost. A shadow of Shannon.

At ten-thirty, Tiffany storms passed me on the stairs, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She's on her way to work and afterward will take refuge at Frannie's house. I heard her tell Maria. She doesn't tell me. She doesn't even look at me as she sweeps by on the stairs. I am invisible to her. To Maria, too. She remains locked in her bedroom and every so often I hear her speaking to Astrid. I also remain locked away. Locked away inside my room and locked away inside myself.

I don't even think my parents came home Saturday night.

I work half-heartedly on my school assignments; I'm still slipping behind. Just barely, but comments have been made. Wes calls four times throughout the day. I fake my way through cheerful conversations. After the third call, I throw up in the wastebasket.

That is Sunday.

Now it's Monday.

Lindsey doesn't know yet. She acts no different during European history, talking incessantly about nothing at all. She doesn't seem bothered that I never respond. She keeps talking. On and on. It's the most anyone's spoken to me in over twenty-four hours.

Abby knows. She doesn't say anything, but when she passes me in the hallway, her eyes are pitying and she offers a slight, reassuring smile. After the Saturday night scene with Anna, I expected her to avoid me. That's how I know Kristy told her.

I've never eaten lunch alone. There has always been someone. Today I am alone. Perhaps I should become accustomed to aloneness. When I am exposed, my lies and deceptions aired out for all to see, I will wish to be alone. I will wish to be invisible. I will wish for the world to swallow me up and conceal me.

I spread out my napkin and begin setting out my lunch. Lindsey and Greer are across the cafeteria sitting with Karl and some other drama kids. Everyone at their table's laughing. Not far away, Meg's eating with the vile Kara Ferguison. Their heads are bent together, conspiratorially. Kristy and Abby are near the salad bar with Amanda Kerner. Kristy doesn't look my way, no matter how long I stare.

A lunch bag plops down in front of me. I glance up and there is awful, awful Sally White. She smirks down at me.

"Well, well, well," she says in that cool, disinterested voice of hers. "Is this irony, Starshine?"

I bite into my ham and cheese sandwich and don't answer.

Sally pulls out a chair and sits down, uninvited as usual. "Spat with Kat?" she asks.

I shrug and continue eating.

"What tipped me off, you see," Sally says, ignoring that I'm ignoring her, "is that Kat moved all the way to the front during microbiology. Whatever could have broken up the dream team?" she asks, polishing her apple on her school sweater. "Did Kat learn a secret? About a boyfriend?"

The ham and cheese has turned to sawdust in my mouth. I drop the sandwich and push it away, feeling queasy.

"Thank you, I _will_ finish that," Sally says, reaching for my sandwich. "Our cook packed me olive loaf. Offensive, is it not?" Sally bites into my sandwich and starts chewing. "Oh, this is good, Starshine," she tells me.

"You're really obnoxious, you know that?" I reply and begin repacking the rest of my lunch before Sally steals that, too.

"I know," Sally answers and takes another bite of my sandwich, "but I am enjoying myself unlike – " Sally points at me, "you. Or – " Sally waves her finger around, "anyone in our general vicinity."

I cram my lunch into my messenger bag. "I am glad my misery pleases you so," I snap and push back from the table.

"Oh, leave the theatrics to Greer," Sally scoffs. "The world will not end because you don't eat lunch with Kat and Abigross. Build a bridge and get over it."

I pull my chair back up to the table and lean forward. "I am not being dramatic," I hiss at her. She might as well know. Everyone else will soon enough. "My secret boyfriend is a twenty-six year old math teacher at Stoneybrook Middle School who thinks I am a twenty year old college student. Kristy's threatening to call the cops!"

Sally takes another bite of the sandwich and chews, thoughtfully. "Well, that is a problem then," she says, still in her bored voice. "Huh."

That's all she has to say? _Huh_. She really is worthless. "You've been a big help," I tell her.

"Well, there's really nothing left for me to say," Sally replies. "Kristy's already threatened you with legal action. I figure she's also threatened to tell her parents. She's definitely yelled at you. And then I figure you already know you're a liar and quite possibly a terrible person. So, really, what more is there to say?"

"You don't understand," I snap, leaning forward again. "No one understands!"

"I understand that you're a liar."

I glance around, ensuring no one's eavesdropping. I've chosen a fairly secluded table and nobody's nearby. "You can mock me all you like, but Wes loves me. _Me_. Not my age. We're in love and nothing will change that."

"So…you're delusional in addition to being a liar and a sneak?"

I glower at her.

"Tell the truth," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"Tell the truth. Admit that you're a liar and a fraud. Come on, Starshine, you don't honestly believe your little math geek's actually going to stick around when he finds out he's been humping a high schooler. Think of someone other than yourself and your burning loins. If you're going to rip out the man's heart, you could at least save him the bother of taking a mug shot."

"You really are worthless, you know that?" I tell her and push away from the table. I swing my messenger bag over my shoulder and stride away, leaving Sally to finish lunch alone.

* * *

When I sit down beside Abby in geology, she has her eyes trained on her textbook, hurrying to complete the homework. She doesn't look up as she says, "I'm not going to lecture you. I really have no room to judge you and neither does Kristy. She's just hurt. If I could afford to be, I'd be hurt too. But right now, whatever it is you're doing is really low on my priority list. I'm sorry if that makes me a bad friend."

"It doesn't," I reply, taking out my own homework. I slide it over to Abby.

And that's all.

* * *

No one wants a ride from me after school. I should find Lindsey and tell her what's going on. She knows Wes is older. She doesn't have a problem with it. She'd be one person on my side. But I know where Lindsey is. She's in the yearbook room doing the work I should be working on, too. She's covered for me for weeks and never complained. I wonder if I'll ever make it up to her.

I ditch Italian club, just like I ditch yearbook. No one wants me at home and there's likely no one there anyway. So, I drive to the Stoneybrook Public Library and bury myself in the stacks, hidden behind towers of books, attempting to catch up once and for all. School used to be my life. Now it's simply a nuisance.

I call home at five o' clock, but no one answers.

Then I call Wes.

"I've been trying to call you," he informs me.

"I'm at the library," I reply. "I didn't think to call earlier."

"Oh…well, I understand," he says. "Where are you now?"

"At a pay phone outside the library."

"Do you want to come over? We can do something."

"Sure. Hey, have you gotten any weird phone calls or anything?"

There's a short pause. "Uh…no. Why?"

"Nothing. I'll be over in five minutes," I say, quickly, and hang up.

I'm beginning to suspect Kristy Thomas is full of hot air and empty threats.

But then maybe that's what she wants me to suspect.

I park in the lot around the corner from Wes' building. Usually I park in the nearer lot, but what if that Lauren girl's watching? Maybe she'll see my car and call the cops, so they can catch us in the act. I don't know her, so I don't know what she's capable of.

Wes greets me at the door with a kiss. He's wearing his jacket.

"Are you going somewhere?" I ask him.

Wes looks surprised. "I thought we were going out," he answers, shutting the door behind me. "I thought we'd have dinner and catch a movie. I'm starving, aren't you?"

I shrug, nonchalant, even though I've barely eaten in two days. "I don't really feel like going out. Let's order pizza." I open the refrigerator and remove a diet soda. I pop the top and take a sip. I manage to do all this very casually.

"You never want to go out," Wes says, slightly irritated. "All we ever do is hang around the apartment. We don't go anywhere anymore. Is something going on? You've been acting strange since Thanksgiving."

"I'm a little overwhelmed with school right now, that's all," I snap at him. "What's wrong with hanging around the apartment? Why do we have to go out? Don't you like being alone with me? Don't you like having sex with me?"

"Of course I do! What does that have to do with anything? I'd just like to leave this apartment occasionally. Are you embarrassed to be seen with me or something? Is that it? Or is something else going on?" Wes pauses and his face drains of color. "Are you cheating on me?" he demands.

"No! I would never do that to you!" I shout. I can't believe we're fighting. We never fight. Maybe this is the end. Maybe he's going to leave me. He'll toss me aside just like Mick did. "Are you breaking up with me?" I demand.

"What? No! Why, are you breaking up with _me_?" Wes asks, his face still void of color.

"No!"

Wes and I stare at each other.

"You aren't cheating on me?" Wes asks, his tone a mixture of panic and suspicion.

"I'm not cheating on you. I can't believe you'd accuse me of that. I thought you loved me!"

"I do love you," Wes insists. "And you're acting kind of scary again."

"And you're acting kind of like a jerk."

The color returns to Wes' face, bleeding bright red across his cheeks. I feel my own chest grow warm. I am awful. I am horrible. How can I be so nasty and cruel when I know what is coming? When Wes learns the truth, this is how he'll remember me, as a shrill harpy, not as the girl who needs him and loves him and has proven both to him in his bed.

"I'm sorry, Wes," I tell him, crossing the room. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head against his chest. "I'm so sorry. I've been under so much stress lately. We can do whatever you want. We can go out. Let's go out."

"I don't think I want to go out anymore."

My breath catches in my throat. I can't breathe for a moment. I close my eyes, still pressed against Wes. "How can I make this up to you? Do you want to go into the bedroom?"

"That's…that's not going to solve anything," Wes replies, hesitantly. He places his hands on my back, gently. "Maybe…we need a little time to cool down. You could come back tomorrow and we can talk then."

"You want me to leave?" I demand, stepping out of his arms. "Fine," I say, picking up my messenger bag and lifting it onto my shoulder. "Fine," I repeat. Then I realize I'm being nasty and unfair again. "You're right. We need time to think. That's a perfectly reasonable request on your part. I'll come over tomorrow." I kiss him, letting my lips linger awhile on his, so he will remember. He kisses me back, which gives me hope.

I don't go home.

There are only two places I can go. One is the library. The other is Lindsey's house. I choose the latter. The Duprees are eating dinner when I arrive on their doorstep. Lindsey brings me into the dining room and Dr. Dupree sets an extra place. No one acts like it's odd I've arrived unannounced and uninvited. I guess the Drs. Dupree know about my parents. I guess they feel sorry for me.

I stay at Lindsey's until ten-thirty. We finish our homework in her bedroom, then watch television in the living room with her grandparents. She talks some about Ross. She talks about the Winter Ball. She invites me to come along with her and her grandmother to buy a dress. I shrug. Lindsey doesn't press the subject. And she doesn't ask what's wrong with me. And I don't volunteer the information. I've told more of the truth to Lindsey than to anyone – except maybe Sally White (what was I thinking?) – but for some reason, I don't want to talk about it anymore. The more I talk about it, the more I feel like a liar and a fraud. A terrible person. Sally White's weaseled her way into my head. Just like she's weaseled her way into my life.

It's at ten-thirty that the Drs. Dupree announce they're going to bed and I take that as a subtle cue to leave. Lindsey walks me to my car and waves as I back out of the drive. The lights are on at my house, downstairs and upstairs. When the garage door rises, I see that neither of my parents are home. Maybe they're dead. I wonder if it would matter if they were. I lock the door behind me after I slip into the laundry room. Maria's left all the lights on in the kitchen. I flick them off as I walk through. I start up the stairs. I hear Maria's radio playing in her bedroom. When I reach the landing, I hear something else, something that gives me pause. I stand very still on the landing, listening. Horror sweeps over me.

Grunting. That's what I hear. Grunting over the noise of Maria's radio. Grunting coming from behind Tiffany's door. I can't believe her. She's taken Tyler back. Tyler, after what he said about her, after how he used her. She's letting him use her again. Using her with Maria right next door.

I drop my bag in the middle of the hallway and storm quickly toward Tiffany's room, letting my feet pound heavily on the floor. Now I am thankful I removed the lock from Tiffany's door. I grab the handle, my hand shaking with fury, and barrel into the room.

Tiffany isn't with Tyler.

She's with Sam Thomas.

They're in her bed, Sam griping the top of the headboard, thrusting inside my little sister, grunting loudly. Tiffany's underneath him, staring at the ceiling, motionless. They're both completely naked.

"What are you doing to my sister?" I screech, flying further into the room.

Sam's head whips around and he practically jumps off Tiffany, falling onto the floor. Tiffany sits up, staring at me, blankly. She doesn't bother to cover her breasts.

"She's only fifteen!" I scream. I pick up a stapler off the desk and throw it at him. It misses. "Get out of my house!" I shriek and throw a pair of sunglasses. I throw anything I find on the desk.

Sam's struggling into his pants. His face is panicked and pale. He thought he could do this in my house and not get caught?

Tiffany continues to stare at me, expressionless.

Sam barely has his shirt and shoes on when he races out of the bedroom. I chase after him, stopping only at Maria's door. I throw it open and grab her badminton racket, then continue my pursuit of Sam Thomas. I never knew I could run so fast. I catch him on the front lawn and deliver a mighty whack to his back. He trips and falls to the ground.

"She's only fifteen years old!" I shriek again. I hit him with the racket. On the head. As hard as possible. "Fifteen! You pervert! What's wrong with you?" I hit him again and again. Sam raises his arms to protect himself from the blows, but I don't give up.

"She didn't do anything she didn't want to!" Sam yells at me.

"She's fifteen!" I hit him again.

"What's going on out here?" a voice bellows. Mr. Papadakis has stepped out onto his porch. He stands with his hands on his hips, watching as I beat Sam Thomas with a badminton racket.

I pause long enough to look at Mr. Papadakis. Sam takes the opportunity to escape. He runs off down the street toward his mother's house.

"Come near my sister again and I'll kill you!" I shout after him.

Mr. Papadakis is still on the porch when I stomp back up the walkway. The Kormans' porch light has just flicked on. I don't care. I don't care who heard.

I race up the stairs. Tiffany's still sitting on the bed, still naked.

"What's wrong with you?" I scream at her.

Tiffany glares at me, nostrils flaring. "You are such a hypocrite," she spits out.

"You're fifteen years old, Tiffany! And Sam Thomas is married with a baby!"

"You're seventeen and screwing some math teacher!" Tiffany yells back. "A math teacher who thinks you're an adult! You're a liar and a hypocrite! And you have no business lecturing me! I can do whatever I want. You had no right chasing Sam out of here. He didn't even give me the rest of my money!"

I drop the badminton racket. "What?" I gasp. "Your money?"

"Sam told me he'd pay me two hundred dollars to take my virginity and call me Stacey while he took it."

I cannot breathe.

Or speak.

Or form a coherent thought.

"Sam Thomas paid you to have sex with him?" I whisper, cold all over.

Tiffany shows no emotion but contempt. "Yes. My virginity might as well be worth something, even if it is only two hundred dollars. Mom always said I better learn to enjoy lying on my back and spreading my legs. Otherwise, I'll never get anywhere or have anything. I might as well start now."

I cover my mouth. I want to cry.

After an eternity of hard stares, I say, "That makes you a whore."

"I don't care. At least I'm an honest whore."

"I'm not a whore."

"Get out of my room."

I turn and leave without argument. I find Maria standing in the hallway, arms wrapped around herself, head bowed, crying. I take a step toward her but she rushes into her bedroom and slams the door. It locks behind her.

I don't know what to do. And there's no one to give me any answers.


	34. Chapter 34

I am going through the motions of my life. 

How did this happen to me? 

It's like some stranger has taken over my body and my real self lingers in the recesses of my mind, screaming out that I am misjudging and misstepping, ruining the perfect façade I have constructed. And I can't stop. I continue on, destroying myself over and over. I chip away at my own surface and I don't like what I find beneath. 

I don't speak to anyone on Tuesday. Not Lindsey while she prattles on throughout European history and definitely not Sally White, who appears to have decided to ignore that yesterday ever happened. She spends most of microbiology carrying on a one-sided conversation with me about the best restaurants in Stamford. She picks up the conversation in Italian without missing a beat. She talks until Signore Chancey mercifully requests she shut up. 

I'd like to speak to Tiffany. But how can I save her when I can't even save myself? 

It feels like everyone's avoiding me. I know I've done it to myself. I haven't been much of a friend, so why should anyone be a friend to me? I stand alone on the steps after school, watching the other kids stream passed, talking and laughing, hurrying to their cars. I watch Kristy and Amanda Kerner climb into Amanda's Audi. Abby's nowhere in sight. I wonder what's going on with Abby. I wonder if Anna's okay. I haven't spoken to her since Saturday night. I haven't even tried. 

I drive home to my empty house. Maria didn't leave a note again. Maybe she'll never write another. She's written me off like she's written off our mother and father. Another person to disappoint her. Mom, Dad, Tiffany, and I, a string of disappointments, falling in a line, like my string of lies. I wonder what will become of Maria. I don't think there's much hope for her now. 

I search for Astrid, but she's nowhere like Maria. I return to the kitchen, pour a glass of apple juice, and make a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. I sit on the center island while I eat, staring at the refrigerator. Mom used to hang our pictures and drawings there, and notices from SDS. Now she says that's tacky. She's too preoccupied to care about those things anymore anyway. There are more important things to worry about in her life. Like the latest listings in Mercer and the size of her breasts. 

Upstairs, I change into dark jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt. I tie a sweater around my waist and grab my bag, then I'm out the front door. There's something that must be done. 

I thought a lot about it last night and throughout the day, in-between fighting the urge to cry for Tiffany, Maria, and myself. Sam Thomas is a pervert. I don't want him near my sister ever again. Tiffany's only fifteen and Sam knows it. Wes and I, that's different. It's not the same. Wes is a good man. Sam Thomas pays for sex with teenage girls who are willing to pretend to be Stacey McGill. Sam is sick. 

I am extremely selfish. Back when I was still myself, still a Shannon to be liked, I never thought of myself as selfish. I have terrible secret thoughts now. It occurred to me last night, as I lay in bed, in the dark stillness, that now I have something to throw in Kristy's face. And in Elizabeth's. They can't touch me. If they expose me, I expose Sam. I thought about that and felt such relief. I am an awful person. 

I can't use Tiffany like that. As desperate as I am, as fearful as I am of losing Wes and of my own exposure, I cannot lower myself that far. I've hurt and disappointed Tiffany enough. I don't want anyone gossiping about her and laughing at her. My own reputation will soon be sullied. I must spare Tiffany the same disgrace. I have failed her again and again. The least I can do for her is shield her from judgment for her regrettable mistake. 

I won't tell Elizabeth and I won't tell Kristy. I won't hold this over them. But Sam can't get away unpunished. There is someone who must know. She can punish him for me. And hopefully, she'll keep her silence. This time. 

I pull through the gates of the Bainbridge Estates, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Stoneybrook. It's surrounded by a gray stone wall covered in ivy, crumbling in places, the homes almost fully obscured by ancient, massive shade trees. Most of the trees are bare for the autumn and reveal through their branches the sharp peaks of the old but well-maintained Victorian houses. I drive slowly, searching for the correct street. I've never been here. I had to look up the address in the phone book. 

I turn onto Bertrand Drive and roll slowly, looking at the house numbers for 745. It's easier to find than I imagined. Janet's standing in the front yard at a low wooden fence, arguing with the elderly woman in the next yard. I pull into the driveway, parking behind Janet's Honda. Janet leaves the neighbor and walks toward me as I come around the side of the car. Her hands are on her hips, mouth in a straight line. 

"Is there anyone you get along with?" I ask. 

Janet frowns and glances over her shoulder at the retreating back of the neighbor. "The Porters' stupid rottweilers never shut up. They bark all night long and keep everyone awake. Then Mrs. McCracken across the street, her damn Pomeranian yips all day. There's never a moment's peace in this neighborhood," Janet answers, grouchily. "What are you doing here?" 

"I'd like to talk to you." 

"Yes?" 

"I mean, in private." 

Janet sighs. "All right. Come in." She turns and begins up the walkway to the front door. 

"Sam isn't here, is he?" I ask, following her. 

"No. He's at class. I don't think anyone's here. I just got home from work," Janet replies, turning her key in the lock. She leads me into the house, flicking on the foyer light. "My mom watches Amy during the day. They're probably running errands or something." Janet works in her father's office. Dr. Gates is an urologist and has an office at Stoneybrook General. "We can go up to my bedroom," Janet tells me and begins up the winding staircase. 

I follow behind Janet. I notice her hair is clipped back with a black and tan-striped barrette. I wonder if she knows Kristy stole her green one. Janet leads me down the hall and into her bedroom and it's…not as I expected. There's a hot pink and orange tie-dye bedspread on the bed with matching curtains over the window. There are posters on the walls of Carson Fraser, Cam Geary, and Todd Byron. Stuffed animals line the shelves across one wall. It's strange. Janet always seems so…_old_. 

"This is your bedroom?" 

"Yes, it's my bedroom," Janet replies, dropping her keys into a hot pink bowl on the dresser. It's decorated with plastic butterflies. 

"Sam sleeps in this room?" 

"Why? What's wrong with it?" Janet snaps. "And no, he doesn't. He prefers to sleep in the guest room downstairs. If you _must_ know." 

I don't understand why she's snapping at _me_. She's the one who ratted me out to Elizabeth. She really has no right to get snippy. 

Janet places her hands on her hips again. She stares at me, eyes narrowed, and runs her tongue across her bottom lip. She shifts her eyes. "Why are you here?" she finally asks. "If you've come to screech at me for telling Elizabeth, please save your breath. I am not apologizing for that. You've gotten way out of control. Has Elizabeth tracked down your boyfriend yet?" 

"No," I reply, annoyed. "You've not spoken to Kristy?" 

"No, I didn't tell Kristy," Janet says, irritably, misunderstanding the question. "I told a responsible adult and no one else. Don't worry, I have no intention of running around, gossiping about your sordid love life." 

"I think you should be more concerned with people gossiping about _your_ sordid love life," I retort. I can't believe all the times I defended Janet to Kristy. She's just as self-righteous as the rest of the Thomas-Brewers. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" 

I almost bring up Charlie, but think better of it. That's not why I'm here. "It means you're married to a pervert," I inform her. 

"Well, that's really not news," Janet replies. "He's also a jerk." 

"He paid my sister to have sex with him." 

Janet blinks. "Come again?" she asks. 

"Sam paid Tiffany two hundred dollars to have sex with him. I caught them in her bed. He was pretending she was Stacey McGill." 

Janet purses her lips and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she walks out of the room without a word, hands still on her hips. A door slams out in the hall. Janet screams. Then the door opens and Janet returns, appearing completely calm. 

"I don't goddamn believe this," she growls, walking passed me. She spins around to face me. "I'm going to kill him." 

"I don't want people to know." 

"The truth will probably come out after I murder Sam," Janet replies. She begins to pace the floor. "It isn't enough that he's a complete bastard, he has to be a child raping bastard, too? What the hell is wrong with your sister?" 

"There's nothing wrong with my sister!" I exclaim. "Your husband is the sexual predator!" 

"Your sister's a fifteen year old prostitute. I think there's something wrong with that." 

"She isn't a prostitute," I snap, even though I accused Tiffany of exactly that last night. It's different coming from Janet. She has no right to judge Tiffany. Janet barely knows her. "Our mother told Tiffany she'll only have anything in life if she gets it by laying underneath a man," I tell Janet. It hurts to say it. The words burn and choke in my throat. 

"Well, no wonder you're sleeping with a thirty year old man," Janet says. She scratches her head. 

"He's twenty-six," I say, peevishly. "And that has nothing to do with my parents. He isn't paying me for sex. That's _your_ husband and I expect you to keep him away from my sister. Please don't tell anyone what Tiffany's done. Please don't blame her. Don't tattle to Elizabeth like you tattled on me." 

"I did not tattle to Elizabeth. Grow up, we're not kindergartners. I didn't say anything until you began going on weekend sex romps in the city," Janet retorts, then folds her arms. "I will take care of Sam." 

"You promise?" 

"Yes," Janet says, arms still folded. She stares at me a moment. "You and your sister need help." 

"Neither of us is the teenage mother." 

Janet frowns, eyes narrowing slightly. "Do you know why I had sex with Sam in the first place?" she asks. "Because I wanted him to like me. Remember that. Tell your sister." 

"It's different for me," I tell her, then turn and leave the bedroom. When I'm halfway down the stairs, I hear the bedroom door shut. Then Janet screams again, followed by a loud crash, like she's swept everything off her desk and allowed it to smash to the floor. 

I don't see how Janet can suggest we're anything alike. 

When I get back into my car, I'm uncertain if I've done the right thing. Maybe I should have kept my silence. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. 

I drive downtown to the Tokyo House on Main Street. Wes and I are meeting here. I've planned carefully. We'll eat early in a restaurant that's always dark and hardly anyone ever eats at. Wes will get what he wants – to go out on a real date, and I'll get what I want – to remain hidden. 

I'm early. I choose a booth in the far back and wait for Wes, stirring my hot tea with a spoon. I feel ill again. That's how I feel all the time now when I think of Wes and the mess I've made. I remember how it was in the beginning. Wes and I were so happy. He was sweet and made me laugh. I don't know what's happened. Oh, I do know. I know what happened. My lies grew into heavy burdens that now weight me down. The end had to come sometime and now here it comes, fast approaching. 

Wes arrives on time. He waves at me from the doorway and smiles almost shyly as he approaches. I manage a weak smile in return. When Wes reaches me, he leans down to kiss me. I know he intends it to be light and fast, but I slide my hand to the back of his head, fingers in his hair, and keep him closer longer. 

"Well, hello to you too," Wes says, sliding in across from me. 

I offer another weak smile. "Hello," I say, softly. 

Wes returns a quick smile then opens his menu. "This is nice, isn't it?" he comments, conversationally. "We haven't gone out for awhile. Do you know what you're ordering?" 

I glance at the menu. "The orange chicken," I reply without giving it much consideration. 

"I'll have that, too then," Wes says and waves over the waitress. 

After placing our order, Wes and I are silent for a while. I stare down at my hands and Wes rearranges his silverware. 

"Things have changed," I finally say. 

"Yes, they have," Wes agrees. "I don't understand why. You're acting so strange these days. Have I upset you in some way? I'm calling too much, aren't I? My dad was right, wasn't he? I don't _have_ to call so often – " 

"You haven't done anything wrong," I interrupt him. I bite my lip and close my eyes. I breathe in. When I open my eyes again, Wes is watching me intently. There's something odd in his eyes. I think it may be panic. "It's me. It's all my fault." 

"What is it?" Wes asks in this peculiar tone. "Oh, God. There _is_ someone else, isn't there?" 

I shake my head. "No, no. It's nothing like that. I just…I can't do this anymore, Wes," I tell him. I'm not even thinking. Or maybe I am. For the first time in weeks, I am thinking with my head. "We have to break up. I'm sorry." I begin sliding out of the booth. 

Wes looks like I've slapped him "What!" he cries, panic rising in his voice. "You're breaking up with me? Just like that? You can't!" Wes reaches across the table and clutches my wrists. Not hard, not tight. He holds them gently, which is worse than if he squeezed until the bones shattered. "We can work things out. I really want this to work, Shannon. I love you." 

I break free of his grip. "I'm sorry, Wes. I really am," I reply, quietly, then rush away, out of the restaurant and into the cold of the November dusk. I can hardly breathe. The air freezes inside my lungs and shudders out in gasps. I can't believe what I've done. I didn't mean to say the words. Just as I didn't mean to speak the lie that started this mess in the first place. I race to my car and jump inside before Wes follows, before he wears down my brittle resolve. 

A few tears escape as I drive home. I brush them quickly away and win the struggle against the others that wish to follow. 

Mom's car is in the garage when I pull into the driveway. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It's barely after five. We never expect her home this early. These days, we rarely expect her home at all. 

"Has something happened?" I ask when I walk into the kitchen. 

Mom's in there alone with her briefcase open on the table, shuffling through a stack of papers. She doesn't even look at me. "I lost some very important papers. Now I'm late for an important dinner meeting with Julian and a client. Damn it! I thought for sure I'd left them here." Mom presses her hand to her forehead and moans. 

"Where's Maria?" 

"I don't know." 

"Has she been home?" 

"I don't know." 

"Where's Tiffany?" 

"I don't _know_." 

"Don't snap at me!" I bark at her. 

Mom finally looks at me. "_Excuse me_?" she replies, archingly. 

"Don't snap at me! You haven't been home in days! I have to do everything! You don't know what's been going on here. You have no idea!" 

Mom gives me a withering look. "I know you were beating Sam Thomas with a tennis racket in our front yard yesterday. Mr. Papadakis phoned me at working asking if everything's all right at home. Honestly, Shannon, could you conduct yourself with a bit more tact? It's bad enough when that busybody Elizabeth Brewer calls me twenty times in a single week, I don't need the Papadakises doing the same." Mom turns her back on me and returns to her papers. 

"It was a badminton racket," I correct, icily. "And aren't you curious as to why I was beating up Sam Thomas?" 

Mom sighs. "I don't have time for your teen angst, Shannon." 

"I caught him fooling around with Tiffany." 

Mom sets her papers back into the briefcase and slowly turns to face me. "What?" she asks. 

"I caught him fooling around with Tiffany. Upstairs in her bedroom." 

"Really?" says Mom, flatly. She turns away again and snaps the briefcase shut. "I always knew Tiffany wasn't very bright. She should be fooling around with the unmarried brother, not the one already strapped with a wife and kid. Sometimes I worry about that girl." 

"I worry about her all the time." 

"Good," Mom says, lifting her briefcase. "It's a full-time job." Then Mom strides into the laundry room and out to the garage without another word. The door slams and shakes the walls of the laundry room. 

I'm surprised to find Tiffany at the top of the staircase, leaning over the banister. I thought I'd have to drag her home from Frannie's in a few days. 

"Tiffany…" I start, but don't know how to finish. 

Tiffany stares at me, blankly. "She's screwing Julian, you know," Tiffany tells me. 

"Julian who?" 

"He was at her dinner party." 

"That guy was like twenty-three years old!" I shriek. 

Tiffany shrugs. 

"We need to talk," I say. 

"No. I'm not listening to your hypocrisy and your judgments anymore. You can't tell me what to do," Tiffany replies and lifts her chin, defiantly. "I'm going to be emaciated like Claudia Kishi. She came to my work a few weeks ago and told me all about it. She's been emaciated and now her parents can't tell her what to do." 

"I think you mean 'emancipated'." 

"Whatever," Tiffany replies. "I talked to Tyler at school today. He's trying to get back with me. He says I misinterpreted his cruel insult. I told him all about Sam Thomas. He cried." Tiffany whirls around and returns to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. A lock turns. She replaced it herself. 

I walk up to my bedroom, feet slow and heavy on the stairs. Maria isn't in her bedroom. I enter my room and shut the door. The phone rings. I sit on the bed and watch it, listening to the shrillness break into the air. The machine clicks on. It's Wes. I reach for the receiver, hand hovering above, but I don't answer. 


	35. Chapter 35

In the morning, I stop at Kristy's locker. She doesn't see me approach because she's busy attempting to shove four textbooks into an already crammed locker. Her locker smells like moldy gym socks. I wait patiently on the other side of the locker door until she slams it shut. Her eyes widen when she sees me. 

"I wanted to tell you," I say, as calm as possible, "that I broke up with Wes. There's no need to involve the authorities or tell your mom or anything. It's over." 

Kristy opens her mouth, likely to say something nasty and judgmental, but I don't give her the opportunity. I walk away at a hurried pace, leaving her at her locker, open-mouthed. 

Sally White brushes passed me in the hallway. "Whoa, Starshine, you look like a re-animated corpse," she comments. 

"Shut up," I snap and continue on without a second glance. 

I thought I would feel better this morning. I feel only worse. And it shows in my reflection. I am worn out and worn down. I should feel better knowing I've ended things with Wes. Now Kristy won't tell and Elizabeth won't tell and I'll continue with my life. Wes will never know. Maybe not, at least. 

I am no better than yesterday. I am full of regrets and second guesses. I've made mistakes, heaped them atop one another and buried myself beneath. Mistakes and lies, that's what my life has come to. That is the sum of who I am. 

I attempt to throw myself into my studies, but it isn't easy. I'm simply not that interested anymore. In anything. Three and a half more weeks until Christmas vacation. Three and a half very long weeks. 

I was going to spend Christmas with Wes in Miami. 

I guess I knew I'd never go. 

I drive home alone again after school. I don't even wait for anybody. I grab my books and barrel right out of the building. No one wants to be with me anyway. 

"Are you sick?" Mrs. Bryar asks when I enter the living room. She's on her knees, kneeling beside the coffee table, wiping it with a pink dust cloth. 

"No. I'm not sick." 

"You don't look well." 

I shrug. I know. 

"I'd like to speak to you about something," Mrs. Bryar says, setting down the dust cloth and standing up. "I realize I should speak to your parents, but your mother never takes my phone calls and your father isn't very…helpful." 

"What's wrong?" 

"I'm concerned about Maria. When she came home from school, she asked if she could come live with me." 

"She…what?" 

Mrs. Bryar adjusts her glasses. "She said she saw some movie where a little girl divorced her parents and went to live with the housekeeper. She would like to do the same," Mrs. Bryar tells me. "Of course, I told her that wasn't possible. She started to cry and said Mrs. Papadakis and Mrs. Brewer told her the same thing." Mrs. Bryar pauses a moment and regards me. "Is there something going on here?" 

I stare at Mrs. Bryar, my head swimming. Maria wants to move out? First Tiffany, now Maria? "No, there's nothing going on," I say, quietly. "Tiffany and Maria are fighting, that's all." 

"That's all?" 

"Yes, of course that's all!" I snap, then immediately regret my tone. But I don't apologize. Instead, I turn and run up the stairs. 

Maria's bedroom door is shut, like it always is these days. I knock softly, then enter without waiting for a response. Maria's on the bed, laying face down on her pillow, quietly sobbing. She doesn't indicate that she's heard me enter. 

"I spoke to Mrs. Bryar," I tell Maria, lowering onto her bed. I set my hand on her back. "I don't want you to move out," I say, gently. 

Maria turns her head, so I see her face. It's red and puffy, blotted with tears. "What do you care?" she asks, nastily. "You and Tiffany can have as much sex as you want when I'm gone. You won't have to worry about fixing me dinner or helping me with my homework. And you won't have to worry about making up big fat lies to tell me!" 

"I'm sorry, Maria. I never wanted you to know. You're too young to understand. I fell in love with the wrong person and I lied to him. And Tiffany…Tiffany's confused." I pet Maria's back, soothingly. "I want to make it up to you. I want to be a good sister again." 

Maria glares at me. "You're a terrible sister! I hate you! Get out of my room!" Maria buries her face back in the pillow and resumes sobbing. 

I close my eyes tight and pat her back one last time. "I'm sorry," I say, then rise and leave the room, shutting the door behind me. 

Tiffany's bedroom door is locked, but I don't think she's in there. 

I enter my own bedroom and begin removing my uniform. While unbuttoning my blouse, I pause beside the desk and check the answering machine. Only one new message. I press play, then cross the room to put away my shoes. The message is from Wes, but I already knew that. He wants to talk things out, he wants me to reconsider. I fill with doubt. His voice sounds so pleading, so insistent. He wants me. 

I turn off the answering machine. 

After pulling on jeans and a thin sweater, I walk back downstairs. Mrs. Bryar's still in the living room, only now she's cleaning the glass on the entertainment center. She doesn't acknowledge me when I enter. 

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," I tell her. 

"It's all right." 

"Maria's still crying. I think it's best to leave her alone for a little while." 

"Yes, that's probably best," Mrs. Bryar replies, then turns to look at me. "_Is_ there something going on?" she asks. 

"Of course not," I say, breezily. "Just the usual stuff. I have everything under control." 

Mrs. Bryar looks doubtful, but returns to her cleaning. 

Outside a car horn blasts. It sounds like it's coming from our driveway. I hurry into the foyer and peek out a window. I see part of Lindsey's car. What's she doing here? I slip out the front door and approach the car. The passenger side window rolls down and Lindsey sticks her head out. Sally White's in the driver's seat. 

"Guess who just got her learner's permit?" Sally says when I lean into the open window. 

"Lindsey, why is Sally driving your car?" 

"I'm giving her a lesson." 

"Your grandparents will kill you if they find out. " 

"You are such a mother," Sally tells me. "Besides, it's Wednesday. Granny's at AA and Gramps has a class. Right, Lindsey?" 

Lindsey's mouth puckers. "Right," she says. 

"You know," I say to Sally, "if you only have a learner's permit, you're supposed to drive with an _adult_." 

"Maybe we could call your boyfriend then." 

I suck in my breath and scowl at her. 

"We're only circling the neighborhood. Get in the car. Let me dazzle you with my driving skills." 

I hesitate. "Oh…all right…hang on…" I run back into the house and grab my bag, then tell Mrs. Bryar I'm going out for a while. When I return to the driveway, Lindsey gets out of the car and moves her seat, so I can squeeze into the back. "Since when do you two hang out?" I ask as Sally flies out of the driveway. 

"Ever since I ordered Lindsey to move over and let me drive her car." 

I roll my eyes. Honestly, Lindsey has no control when it comes to Sally White. 

I lean forward, so I'm between their seats. "Have you spoken to Kristy?" I ask Lindsey. 

"Well, yeah. I saw her a couple times today. Then in economics, we worked all period on our project. Why?" 

I'm surprised Kristy hasn't run her mouth off about me to Lindsey. She certainly got to Abby quick enough. "I broke up with my boyfriend," I tell Lindsey. 

Lindsey whirls around. "You did?" she exclaims. "The older man? Why?" 

I hesitate. It's safe to tell Lindsey. And she can hear the truth from me, instead of a skewed truth from Kristy. "Well…I wasn't completely honest with you. I mean, there are a couple things I left out," I say, then explain about the lies I told Wes and how Kristy and Elizabeth have both threatened to expose me. 

"Why does Kristy care?" Lindsey wants to know when I finish. 

I nod. "I agree. It's none of her business. She's so judgmental." I knew I could count on Lindsey to see my side. 

"I still think you're delusional," Sally says, turning her head to look at me. "And that – " 

"Sally, watch out!" I shriek, as Sally runs a stop sign. 

Sally slams on the brakes and we screech to a halt in the middle of the intersection nearly plowing into the side of a white Corvette. The redhead behind the wheel throws up her hands and leans on the horn. She shouts something we can't hear. Sally gives her the finger and continues across the intersection. 

Lindsey's jaw has dropped open. 

"See, I knew it was a bad idea to let Sally drive your car," I point out. "She's a horrible driver!" 

Lindsey's face has gone white and I assume from fear until she speaks. "Do you know who that was?" she squeaks. "That was Grace Blume! She's in my youth group at First Methodist! Oh, no!" Lindsey turns around in her seat to look at me, her eyes panicked. "Do you think she saw me? Grace and Mari control the seating arrangements! They'll make me sit in the back with Alexander Kurtzman next to the trash can!" 

"Oh, who cares what some Methodist in a Corvette thinks?" demands Sally, barely pausing at the next stop sign. "And I thought you were Jewish." 

"Sadie's Jewish, George is a Methodist. They make me attend both services." 

"Religious fanatics. That explains _so_ much about you, Lindsey." 

"They aren't fanatics! They simply feel that religion provides a moral foundation that secular society does not," Lindsey tells her, irritably. "Now, back to Shannon. I don't understand why you broke up with him. Kristy isn't going to call the cops. And if she hasn't tattled to her mom and stepdad by now, she's not going to. You should be enjoying yourself while you still can. If you're really in love, it shouldn't matter that you lied about your age. Not if he _really_ loves you." 

I rest my chin on the back of her seat. "You think so?" I ask. I've wondered the same myself. Would it matter to him? I can never decide. 

"Yes, I think so." 

"Okay, let's leave fantasy island and reconvene in the real world," Sally announces, making a sharp turn onto Edgerstone and nearly taking out Bart Taylor as he steps off the curb. "You can't be so dynamite in bed, Starshine, that lover boy will overlook the fact that you are a _liar_. A _liar_ who has put him in a really bad position. I'm sure the parents of his students will adore the knowledge that he beds high school girls. Unknowingly or not." Sally slams hard on the brakes, for no apparent reason, then switches on the windshield wipers. Again, for no apparent reason. "And you, little Miss Lemonhead," she says to Lindsey, "need to pay more attention to the sermon and less to where you're sitting. Good God, you give awful advice!" 

I shift my gaze from Lindsey to Sally and back again. Sally White's not my friend. I don't even _like_ her. Lindsey is my friend. One of my oldest, closest friends. Of course, she's also kind of unstable. She did hit Kristy with a bat that one time. I bite my lip. I don't trust myself anymore. 

"And stop chewing on your hair," Sally says, sternly, yanking Lindsey's braid out of her mouth. "That's disgusting! You aren't a baby. No wonder your grandparents treat you like one." 

"There's no need to be rude," I tell her. "Could you please focus on driving?" 

"Don't listen to her, Shannon," Lindsey says to me, twirling her blonde braid around her hand. "She doesn't know you. You're mature. And you're _in love_. That's really all that matters. You shouldn't care what anyone else says. You know, when George and Sadie got married, none of their relatives came to the wedding. Everyone was up in arms because they weren't the same religion. But their families came around eventually. George and Sadie have been married for almost forty years." 

"Did Granny lie about being Jewish?" Sally asks. 

"No." 

"Did Gramps lie about being a Methodist?" 

"No." 

"Were they both over eighteen?" 

"Yes." 

"Then how are the two situations at all related?" 

"Oh, shut up, Sally," I snap. She thinks she knows everything. She knows _nothing_. "Can you please take me home? I'm tired of circling the neighborhood. Plus, you're the worst driver I've ever ridden with." 

Sally makes a U-turn in the middle of Green House Drive and heads back in the direction of McLelland. No one says anything else. When we get back to my house, Lindsey lets me out, then has the good sense to make Sally switch her seats. I say goodbye to Lindsey, but ignore Sally, and walk back up the steps to my front door. 

Mrs. Bryar has already left. Upstairs, I find Maria in her bedroom, a suitcase open on the bed, half-filled with clothes and school books. I freeze in the doorway and watch her shove in her ski parka. 

"Are you running away?" I ask, my voice catching in my throat. She's leaving me, too? 

"No," Maria says, coldly, not turning around. She closes the suitcase and zips it. "I'm spending the night at Lily's. I told her stepmom that Mom and Dad are out of town and that my older sisters aren't fit to care for me." 

"What if I say you can't go?" 

Maria lifts her suitcase off the bed and turns to me. "You're not in charge anymore, Shanny," she says. "You can't boss me around." 

I stare at her, feeling like she's socked me in the stomach. I collapse sideways so that my right shoulder leans into the doorway. 

Maria reaches into her pocket. "This is from Tiffany," she says, handing me a folded sheet of binder paper. "Lily's stepmom said to wait outside." Maria passes me in the doorway and disappears down the staircase without another word. 

I return to my bedroom and sit down on the bed, unfolding the sheet of paper. Tiffany's written me a note. Actually, it's addressed to "The Hypocrite", which I suppose is the same as writing "To Shannon". I scan the note with my eyes. It reads: "_To The Hypocrit: I am staying at Frannie's. Don't come after me! I don't want to see you're lying, judgementel face. Mom came home while you were out. She and Julian are going to Baltimore for two days to screw, although she calls it a bussiness trip. Just a FYI, like you'd notice she was gone. _

I read the note three times. I can't believe its coldness. Coldness from Tiffany, coldness from Maria. I know I've disappointed them. But I'm not perfect. Everything I've done right in the past, does that count for anything? For anything at all? 

I retrieve the phone from my desk and bring it over to the bed. I breathe deeply and dial. 

"Hello?" answers a girl's voice. 

"Hello, is Anna Stevenson there?" I ask. 

"Um…let me check." I hear the phone clang onto a table. In the background, there's a distant, muffled sound of girls laughing and shouting. The girl who answered returns. "Anna isn't accepting any phone calls," she informs me. "Sorry." 

"Would you tell her it's Shannon? And it's really, really important I speak to her." 

"Hold on," the girl says and the phone clangs down again. When she returns she says, "Sorry. She doesn't want to speak to anyone." 

"Thanks anyway," I mumble and hang up. I stare down at the phone again. I close my eyes as a couple tears leak out. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. The house is so still, so quiet. I lift the receiver and dial again. 

"I've made a terrible mistake." 


	36. Chapter 36

"I knew you would change your mind," Wes says. 

"Come over and we'll talk," I tell him. "No one's here. I'm all alone." 

"Okay," Wes says. "Give me about fifteen minutes." 

"I'll be waiting." 

I hang up the phone with a shaking hand. Maybe I'm making a mistake. And then maybe I've made so many already that another doesn't count. I am alone and no one wants me. No one except Wes. How can I push that aside? The end is nearing, the real end, and Lindsey's right. I should hang on to Wes as long as I can. He loves me. He can't just stop loving me. When the real end comes and the truth is known, that I will deal with then. 

I hurry around the room, shoving my textbooks into drawers, making sure every piece of my uniform is out of sight. I rip my SDS pennant off the wall and toss it into the closet. Then I strip off my jeans and shirt and cram them into the hamper. I dab jasmine perfume behind my ears and on my wrists and between my breasts. I slip into my gray skirt and a v-neck blouse with tiny pearl buttons. I brush my hair, parting it neatly on the side. I look much better. I look like the Shannon I used to be. Now I am only altered on the inside. 

I wait for Wes on the front porch, sitting on the highest step, knees folded to my chest. The sun is lowering, the street growing darker, although it's not so late. Next door the Korman kids play in their front yard with a group of kids from down the street. Across the street, Abby's house is dark as always. I wonder if we're still really friends. I wonder if Anna and I are still really friends, too. 

I've lost a lot since October. 

And I haven't gained much in return. 

There is Wes. The red Volvo pulls into the drive and Wes jumps out. He has a bouquet of pink roses tinged with yellow at the center. 

"They didn't have any orchids," he says, handing me the flowers. 

I laugh. It sounds strange escaping from me. "Thank you. They're lovely, Wes. Come in." I lead him up the steps onto the porch. As I open the front door, I glance over my shoulder and down the street. Kristy's bedroom window is dark. 

"I'm so happy you called, Shannon," Wes tells me, following me through the foyer into the kitchen, where I search for a vase. "I knew you weren't serious. I knew," he says. 

I don't say anything, but as I search the cabinet beneath the sink, I bite my lip very hard. I almost feel better because of it. 

"They really are lovely, Wes," I say, arranging the roses in a spiral-cut crystal vase. I set the vase on the table, then take Wes' hand and pull him out of the kitchen and into the living room. I consider leading him upstairs to my bedroom. That's where I planned for us to talk, but what is the point? There is no one here. There is never anyone here. The house is mine. 

Wes and I sink down onto the couch and he catches my hands in his, stroking his thumbs along my palms. "Thank you for reconsidering, Shannon. Thank you for giving me another chance. I'm sorry for whatever I did wrong to upset you." 

"You didn't do anything wrong, Wes," I reply. 

"No, no. I must have done something to upset you. Am I suffocating you? That's what my last girlfriend, _Chelsea_, accused me of. She said I called too often. But I think that was her way of justifying sleeping with all of Stoneybrook General. I guess that's why I worried about you cheating on me. I'm sorry, Shannon. I know you aren't like Chelsea." Wes raises my right hand and kisses my wrist. 

"I would never cheat on you, Wes," I promise him. I would do a lot of dishonest, underhanded things and I have, but I would never cheat on him. "But I didn't break up with you for anything you did. It was me, all me. I'm not who you think I am. I don't deserve you." 

"Yes, you do," Wes says, softly, and drops my hands. He brushes a lock of hair away from my eye and caresses my face. 

I close my eyes, his hand warm against my cheek. "I have a lot of problems. There's so much you don't know. I'm falling apart." 

"You can tell me anything, Shannon." 

"You won't love me anymore." 

"Yes, I will." 

"Promise?" 

Wes hesitates, but his thumb continues stroking my cheek. "I promise," he finally says. "What do you need to tell me?" 

I open my eyes. I gaze into his and sigh, slightly, and smile. "Nothing. It's not important." I take his hand and kiss his fingertips. 

Wes looks at me a bit unsurely. 

"I'm sorry for breaking up with you," I tell him. "Especially how I did it. It was wrong. I was just upset about something else. Forgive me?" 

"Of course. You know I want you back. I really want this to work, Shannon. We can work out our problems. I promise I won't suffocate you, if you promise to not freak out at me again. You're my girlfriend. You should tell me your problems." 

"I know," I reply. But what do I tell him? Speaking things makes them real, sends them out into the world, existence admitted. And it means they are not within my control. Is anything in my control anymore? "My little sisters left," I tell Wes. "They're angry with me." 

"How do little girls leave?" Wes asks. 

I chuckle. "Wes, they aren't little girls. They're fifteen and twelve. Maria wants to live with our housekeeper. Tiffany – I don't know what she wants. But she sold her virginity for two hundred dollars." 

Wes' eyes nearly pop out of his head. "I hope she's the fifteen year old!" he cries. 

"That makes it okay?" I exclaim. 

"No, but it's better than twelve," Wes replies and he blushes slightly. "Okay, maybe nothing makes it better. Why would she sell her virginity?" 

"Because someone offered to buy it." 

"That's sick." 

I stare down at my hands, resting in my lap. "I know," I say. "But it's not really Tiffany's fault. She's very angry. Everyone disappoints her." Including me. 

"You should make her come home. Where are your parents? Why don't they make her come home?" 

I shrug. "They don't know she's gone. If they knew, they wouldn't care. I've told you before, they don't want to be parents anymore. Why do you think my littlest sister wants to live with our housekeeper? She wants to live anywhere but here." 

"Your family's…odd," Wes says, which I suppose is the nicest possible thing to say. We're a lot worse than odd. Wes takes my hands in his. "You should take your wall down more often. You shouldn't hold everything in." 

I nod. "I know," I reply and scoot over, closer to him. I rest my head on his shoulder. 

"We could go find your sisters." 

I shake my head. "They need some space. They need some time to quit being angry with me," I say and lift my head to kiss Wes' lips. I've missed this. I've missed feeling so close to him. To someone. "Come on," I say, rising from the couch. I hold out my hands, taking his in mine, pulling him to his feet. "I've missed you. I'll show you my bedroom." 

Wes allows me to lead him up the stairs. We pass Tiffany and Maria's darkened bedrooms. The upstairs is still eerie in its silence, but at least I am not alone. I shut the door behind Wes and I. Wes begins walking around the room, examining the books on their shelves, picking up things on the desk and dresser, checking out my photos. 

"I didn't imagine you as a peach and yellow girl," Wes says, looking at the curtains. 

I shrug. "My mom and I chose the colors a long time ago when I was in middle school. I was much different then. So was my mom." 

Wes stops beside a large peach colored photo frame on the wall. Kristy put it together for me for my fifteenth birthday. The frame has twelve different photo slots and Kristy filled each with funny pictures of me, me as the girl I used to be. 

"Hey, this blonde girl looks familiar," Wes comments, tapping a photo. 

"Oh, that's just some club I used to belong to." 

Wes turns away from the frame and moves across the room to where I stand. "Your room isn't like I expected," he says. "I don't know what I expected." 

"At least there's no _Star Wars_," I point out. 

Wes groans. 

I smile, feeling much less doubtful than before. This is right. This is the best possible choice I could make at the moment. I need Wes. No one else wants to be with me. I unbutton my blouse and let it fall to the floor. Wes comes to me and wraps his arms around my waist. He leans down and kisses me. I pull him onto the bed. He kisses my neck, my shoulders, my stomach. 

"I'm so glad you changed your mind," he whispers. 

"It was a terrible mistake," I tell him. "I'll make it up to you." I reach behind my back and struggle to unhook my bra. I toss it onto the floor, then unzip the side of my skirt and wriggle it passed my hips and thighs, finally kicking it to the end of the bed. 

"You don't have to make anything up to me," Wes says and pulls his polo shirt over his head. 

Oh, yes, I do. 

I kiss him again and again. I kiss him until my lips ache. I feel so much better. My mind grows foggy, but it's free of worries or doubts. And that's all I want. I just want to feel good. 

"Did you bring a condom?" I ask Wes, breathlessly. 

He removes his lips from my collarbone. "Uh…no. I didn't realize you'd want to have sex tonight…in your parents' house." 

"Oh…" I reply, disappointed. "That's all right. You can just pull out." 

"I don't think that's a very reliable form of birth control." 

"I trust you." 

"We don't have to have sex." 

"But – " 

A door slams downstairs. I sit up bolt-right. My breath catches and my stomach tightens. I listen. Footsteps on the stairs. Loud and heavy. Not Tiffany. Not Maria. 

"It's my dad," I hiss. 

Wes' eyes widen in panic. 

"Don't worry," I tell him. "He never bothers me." 

And as soon as the words leave my mouth, Dad calls out, "Hey! Whose Volvo's blocking the driveway! I can't get in the garage!" 

"Dear Lord," I mutter, jumping off the bed. The one time Dad actually wishes to acknowledge my existence. I open the closet and grab a robe, slipping my arms into it and tying it tight around my middle. Dad's footsteps approach down the hallway. Behind me, Wes pulls his shirt over his head. 

Dad knocks on my door. "Shanny?" he shouts. "Are you in there?" 

I crack the door and peer out at him. I know my hair is a mess and my make-up likely smudged. "What?" I demand, sharply. 

"Someone's car is blocking the driveway." 

"The driveway is enormous!" 

"But I can't pull into _my_ spot in the garage." 

"I'm busy. You can move your car later." 

"Who do you have in there?" Dad asks, trying to push his head through the crack. 

I push back. "No one!" 

Dad's stronger and forces the door open enough to stick his head in. He sees Wes sitting on the bed, red-faced and disheveled. Dad chuckles. "Oh. Sorry," he says and chuckles again. 

"Could you leave now?" I ask him. 

"Yeah, sure. Hey, is this the same guy from New York?" 

Wes stands up. "I'm Wesley – " 

I cut Wes off. "Yes, it's the same guy," I snap at Dad. What does he think, I leap from man to man? I'm not Tiffany. "Is that okay with you?" I ask, sarcastically. 

The sarcasm doesn't register for Dad. "Sure, sure. You're an adult. I'll just be downstairs doing some work. Pretend I'm not here," Dad says, then turns and leaves. 

I shut the door and lock it. 

I roll my eyes at Wes. "My dad's such a jerk." 

"You could have introduced us," Wes tells me. 

"Oh…well, it was awkward enough already," I reply and drop my robe. I walk back to the bed. 

"I think I should go," Wes says and picks up one of his shoes. 

"Because I didn't introduce you to my dad?" I exclaim. 

Wes shakes his head. "No, no. I understand that. It's just…your dad being home and knowing we're up here…it's kind of weird. I don't think I feel very comfortable. Maybe if I was fifteen or something." 

I pick my robe up again. "You don't have to leave. I mean, my dad doesn't care. We can just hold each other and talk. Stay with me," I plead, slipping on the robe. 

Wes hesitates, torn. "No…I should leave. Let's stick to having sex at my apartment," Wes says, tying his shoelace. He stands up. "Do you want to go out tomorrow night? As in actually go out?" 

I tighten the belt on my robe and nod. I shouldn't feel rejected. I should understand. I fake a smile. "Yes! Let's go out! We can celebrate our reconciliation. We'll eat at our restaurant, then catch a movie," I suggest. And we'll do it all in Stamford. Stamford, the safe city. 

Wes grins. "Good idea!" he agrees. 

I walk him downstairs to the front door. We pass Dad in his study. He's closed the French doors, but I see him through the glass, bent over a large book, completely unbothered by what I may be doing upstairs. Anger swells inside me, anger I do not expect or understand. 

Wes kisses me at the front door. "I'm glad we're back together," he says. 

"Me too." 

"Things will be better this time." 

"Yes." 

I wave to him as he goes down the front steps, then shut the door. I turn the deadbolt. I stand in the foyer a minute before deciding to enter the study. I open the French doors without knocking. 

"Your boyfriend didn't have to leave," Dad says without looking up. 

"He felt uncomfortable," I reply and lean back against the doorway. "He's older, you know. I know Elizabeth Brewer told you." 

"Yeah, she told me," Dad replies. He still doesn't look at me. "You're a big girl. You can make your own decisions. I told Elizabeth that." 

"I'm so pleased," I say, breezily. 

"I thought you would be," Dad answers. He uncaps a pen and circles something in his book. "Did I ever tell you about my high school girlfriend? Fay McCracken. What a frigid bitch she was. Probably still is. She was a knockout though. Killer legs and the personality of an arctic glacier. She dumped me on prom night. After she almost bit off my ear and kicked me so hard you and your sisters are lucky to be here. Her little sister though – " Dad chuckles. "We used to call her Whackin' McCracken because – " Dad chuckles again. "Well, there's a story for another time." 

I stare at him, dumbfounded. What does this have to do with _anything_? "Maybe you should give Whackin' a call," I suggest, sarcastically. 

Dad chuckles, like that's the most preposterous thing he's ever heard. "Nah. She blew her brains out after high school." 

"That's a charming story. Thanks for sharing it, Dad," I say, then turn and leave the study. I'm uncertain if Dad even notices. I know he doesn't care. 

I hope that when my reputation is ruined, I won't want to blow my brains out like Whackin'. 

The phone rings in the kitchen. It rings in Dad's study, too. I listen as it rings four times, then finally hurry into the kitchen to answer it. Dad can't even bother to answer the telephone. 

"Hello?" I say, flatly when I answer. 

"Hello? Is this Maria?" asks a girl's voice. 

"No. This is Shannon." 

"Oh. Hey Shannon. This is Frannie. Can I talk to Tiffany? I have a question about the oceanography homework." 

My grip on the phone tightens. So does my stomach. "What?" I ask, voice strangled. "Tiffany's staying the night at your house." 

There's a short pause. "No," Frannie says. "I haven't seen Tiffany since sixth period." 

I grit my teeth so hard I'm shocked they don't shatter. 


	37. Chapter 37

I dash up the stairs to Tiffany's bedroom. I slide on a pile of spilled jelly beans and fall into the dresser. When I catch my balance, I pull open the bottom dresser drawer and toss out all the clothes. The cigar box is gone. I knew it would be. I knew Tiffany would move it after I found it. But is it still hidden in this room? Or has Tiffany pocketed all her money and taken off? I rise to my feet and hold my head. Dear Lord. Where is Tiffany? 

In my bedroom, I remove my jeans and shirt from the hamper and quickly dress. I hop down the hallway, struggling to pull on a pair of sneakers. Dear Lord. Dear Lord. What do I do? I stop outside Dad's office and stare in. He's on the phone now, leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the desk. He wouldn't care. He wouldn't care that Tiffany's gone. He'd probably congratulate her. 

I need help. I can't do this alone. 

The lights are on at Abby's house. I race across the street toward them. I lean on the bell, making it chime over and over, a high and constant ring breaking into the night. Footsteps pound down the stairs and Abby shouts, "That better not be you, Kristy Thomas!" then the door flies open. 

"Oh! Shannon, it's you!" Abby exclaims and laughs. "I thought it was Kristy being annoying." 

"You have to help me find Tiffany!" I cry. "I think she's done something incredibly stupid!" 

The grin melts off Abby's face. "What's wrong?" she asks. 

"I…I think Tiffany ran away…with Sam Thomas." 

"Sam Thomas!" Abby shouts. 

I nod and close my eyes a moment. "Yes, Sam Thomas," I confirm and then I tell Abby about Monday night and what I caught Tiffany and Sam doing, and what Tiffany told me afterward. 

Abby covers her mouth with both hands, appearing absolutely horrified. "Oh my gosh," she gasps when I finish. "Do you think…do you think…?" 

"I think Tiffany's trying to get the rest of her money," I admit. 

"We'll find her," Abby tells me, firmly. "Let me get my jacket and bag." Abby rushes up the stairs and returns less than a minute later, one arm through a sleeve of a red windbreaker, the other clutching her beige knit purse. Abby pulls the front door closed behind her and locks it. "Mom's working late. Of course. Have you spoken to Kristy yet?" 

"No!" 

"Maybe she's seen Sam." 

I don't want to talk to Kristy. I don't want to talk to any of the Thomas-Brewers. I bite my lip. But this isn't about me. I need to find Tiffany. I nod, letting Abby know I agree with her, and silently we begin the walk to Kristy's house. 

The lights are on. I ring the bell. Linny Papadakis answers the door. 

"Is Kristy here?" I demand. 

Linny appears taken aback by my tone. He shakes his head. "No. They all went to some play at David Michael's school. I'm watching Emily Michelle," Linny replies. 

"Was Sam with them?" 

"No." 

"Come on!" I grab Abby's wrist and run away, almost forgetting to call, "Thanks, Linny!" over my shoulder. 

Back at my house, Abby and I hurry up the stairs to Tiffany's room. I instruct Abby to search for the cigar box. She takes half of the room, I take the other. Tiffany's room is such a disaster that box could be anywhere. Or nowhere at all. Abby begins in the closet. I flatten onto the carpet and pull myself underneath Tiffany's bed. Even the unseen places of Tiffany's room are littered with trash and junk. I drag out a couple cardboard boxes and stack them on top of the bedspread. I sit down and begin weeding through the boxes. They're mostly filled with old books and magazines. Nothing of much importance. I throw everything back into the boxes rather haphazardly and shove them back underneath the bed. 

"I found it!" Abby yells from inside the closet. She's lying on the carpet, buried beneath coats and shirts that hang on the lower rack. Abby slides out of the closet, the cigar box in one hand. "It was inside a Dutch cookie tin," Abby tells me, holding out the cigar box. 

I take it from her and sit down on the bed. Abby sits beside me. I take a deep breath and lift the lid. 

The money is there. 

I sigh, relieved. "She didn't run away," I say, softly. I take out the money and begin counting. It's all there and then some. She wouldn't have left her money behind. Wherever she's gone, Tiffany intends to return. 

"What now?" asks Abby. 

"I don't know," I admit. 

"We could call her friends." 

"Frannie is her only friend." 

"What about her co-workers? Maybe she's _not_ with Sam. Maybe she's just trying to make you worry." 

I nod, even though I am unconvinced. I rise from the bed and cross the room, stepping over piles of clothes. Mrs. Bryar refuses to enter Tiffany's bedroom anymore. That's why nothing is ever cleaned or put away. The bulletin board above Tiffany's desk is covered in magazine clippings and newspaper articles on gardening. I lift them up until I find the list of Tiffany's co-workers and their phone numbers. She's friendly with some of the girls who work with her. Abby could be right. 

"I'll call some of these people," I tell Abby. "Go downstairs and start calling the neighbors. Maybe someone saw Tiffany leave. She can't drive, so someone must have picked her up." 

Abby nods and salutes me, which I don't exactly appreciate, but ignore. Inside my room, I sit at my desk and punch in number after number. No one from Hot Dog On A Stick has spoken to Tiffany. No one has any idea where she may be. With each call, I become more and more sure that Tiffany is with Sam Thomas. And maybe that's partly my fault. I begin flipping through my address book. I call Mrs. Bryar, but she doesn't answer. I call Maria at Lily's house and Maria rather rudely informs me that she doesn't know where Tiffany went or with whom and didn't see her leave. Then Maria hangs up on me. I know I deserve it. 

I can't think of whom else to call. I flip absently through the address book, scanning the names. Who would Tiffany go to? Then my eyes fall on a name in the "K" section – Claudia Kishi. Of course! I almost laugh. Tiffany isn't with Sam! This probably has something to do with her strange emancipation scheme. I dial Claudia's private number. The number's been disconnected. 

Abby breezes into the room. "Any luck?" she asks and I shake my head. "Me either. I called the Papadakises and the Kormans and Morbidda – I mean, Mrs. Porter – and no one saw Tiffany leave this afternoon. I even called Bart, Amanda, Karl, and Al since they're all just around the corner. None of them have seen Tiffany. And don't be mad – I called Greer." 

I make a face at Abby. 

Abby frowns. "Tiffany might go to her." Abby shrugs. "You never know. But Greer hasn't spoken to her. Greer said she'd come over and help us look though." 

"No! I don't need Greer's help!" I snap. Greer's already stolen my homework and my boyfriend. There's no telling what she'll attempt to steal next. "I tried calling Claudia. Tiffany spoke to her once about being…being emancipated…" I feel my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. As if that's more embarrassing than Tiffany selling herself to Sam Thomas. "But Claudia's number has been disconnected." 

"Oh, yeah…she moved in with her aunt and uncle awhile ago. She's back at her parents' now. I'll try the house line." 

I leave Abby in my room to make the call. I lock myself in the bathroom and sit down on the toilet and hold my head in my hands. I won't cry. So I don't. Instead, I simply sit very still, head swimming in worries and fears. Abby won't find Tiffany. 

Abby knocks on the bathroom door. "Shannon?" she calls out and I rise and let her in. Abby leans against the doorway, frowning. "We're on a wild goose chase," she informs me. "I called Claudia's house. Mrs. Kishi told me that Claudia's at Erica's. I called Erica's and her brother said they're at Pete Black's. Then Mr. Black said they're all at the Sterns'. And Mr. Stern said they're at Emily Bernstein's. So, I called Emily and she screeched at me that I interrupted her homework and hung up on me. I think it's safe to assume Claudia's _not_ there." 

I sigh and drop my arms, letting my elbows dig into my thighs. "It was a waste of time anyway. This has nothing to do with emancipation. I know where she is. She's with Sam Thomas. Come on, let's go." 

"Where are we going?" 

"To Sam's house." 

I don't tell Dad I'm leaving. Abby and I climb into my car and I'm out of the garage so fast, I almost forget to raise the door. I grip the wheel tight as I drive toward Bainbridge Estates. I can't believe Tiffany. Is she punishing me now? She punished Tyler the first time and now it's mine turn? 

"I heard you broke up with…with that guy," Abby says after a couple minutes of silence. 

I snort in response. Kristy and her big mouth. 

"Kristy's just worried about you, you know," Abby continues. "She's pretty conservative, you know that. I guess that's why you kept it from her. You could have told me." 

"Anna knew." 

"I figured." 

I'm silent for a while. I turn through the gates of Bainbridge Estates. I say to Abby, "I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't understand." 

"You're right. I don't understand. But your business is your business. I am in no position to judge. I've made my fair share of mistakes. Trust me on that," Abby replies, then turns to look out the window, out at the dark night. 

I pull up to the curb in front of Janet's house. The house is dark. Janet's Honda sits in the driveway. Abby and I jump out of the car and hurry up the front walk. Next door, the dogs are barking, loud and rough, the mere sound of them frightening. Across the street, another dog answers them in tiny, sharp yips. I see Janet's point. I ring the doorbell, leaning on it like I did Abby's. Abby stands a step behind me, hands in the pockets of her windbreaker. 

"I don't think anyone's home," she tells me. 

"Yes, they are!" I snap at her. "Tiffany and Sam are here!" I back up onto the front lawn, gazing up at the upstairs windows. There's no movement in Janet's room. I pick up a pebble from the flowerbed and throw it at the window. It bounces off the pane. 

"Shannon!" Abby cries, shocked. 

I throw another pebble. And another. 

"Shannon! Sam's car isn't even in the driveway!" 

"It's in the garage then!" I yell and continue throwing the pebbles. Some miss and bounce off the side of the house. "Sam Thomas!" I shriek. "Get out here! I know you're up there!" I start throwing the pebbles at the other windows. At any window I can hit. I lose all control. I can't stop. "Tiffany! Tiffany!" 

"Shannon!" Abby sounds panicked, but it barely registers. 

"Tiffany!" 

The front door opens next door. "What's going on out here?" a voice calls. The person steps onto their porch. "Shannon? Abby?" 

I throw my last pebble and turn toward the voice. Mary Anne Spier's standing on the porch next door. She's wearing an atrocious pair of green plaid pants. Her stepmother appears behind her, along with the elderly woman I saw Janet arguing with, and an elderly man. 

"What are you doing?" Mary Anne calls out, then hurries down the porch steps toward us. 

"Are you throwing rocks?" Mrs. Spier asks, sharply. 

"No," Abby and I lie in unison. 

Mary Anne reaches us and folds her arms over her chest, teeth chattering. "What are you doing here?" she asks us. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" I retort. 

Mary Anne wrinkles her nose at me. "Sharon's parents live next door. We're here having dinner. Now, again, what are _you_ doing here?" 

Abby and I exchange a glance. 

"We're looking for Tiffany," Abby says. 

"We think…we think she may have…run off with Sam Thomas," I admit. The possibility doesn't seem real when I speak it. It makes my head swim again. 

Mary Anne's eyes bug out. "Really?" she squeaks. "Oh, gosh." She turns around to face her stepmother and grandparents. "Does anyone know where the Gates' are?" she calls to them. 

All three shake their heads. 

Mary Anne turns back to us. "Have you checked the bus station?" she asks. "Or…or hotels?" 

I gulp. Neither occurred to me. "We should try hotels," I tell Abby. "If Tiffany's trying to…you know…that's where they'll be." 

"I'll come with you," Mary Anne offers. "Let me get my coat!" She takes off across the yard, leaping over the low wooden fence. Her foot catches on it and she stumbles. Under different circumstances it would be funny. 

"Is everything okay?" Mrs. Spier calls to us when Mary Anne slides passed them into the house. 

"Fine!" I lie. "Everything's under control!" 

"She's an adult," Abby whispers. 

"I don't even know her," I snap back. I'm not involving some strange woman in my family problems. It's bad enough that Mary Anne's joining in the search. The more people who know, the more people will talk. I still don't want others knowing what Tiffany did. 

Mary Anne flies out of the house in a white parka, a purse banging against her leg. "We're looking for her sister! I'll be home later!" Mary Anne shouts to her stepmother without pause. She runs around the fence this time, then the three of us climb into my car. 

"Try the Strathmoore first," Mary Anne suggests. 

I shake my head. "No. The Strathmoore's expensive. It probably costs more for one night than Sam paid…um…" I let my voice drop off. 

There's an awkward silence. 

"Yeah, let's head out of town," Abby finally agrees. "The Sleepy Bear is closest and then we'll try Kozy Kabins and The George Washington." 

I nod and turn onto Main Street, heading to the outskirts of Stoneybrook. The Strathmoore is the only hotel actually in Stoneybrook. It's downtown and rather fancy. I've attended a lot of parties and weddings there. Sam would never pay so much money for a cheap tryst with Tiffany. Dear Lord. I just thought "cheap tryst" in connection with my little sister. _Dear Lord._

We've left Stoneybrook when Mary Anne leans forward between the seats. "Since no one's offering the information, I have to ask. Why do you think Tiffany ran off with Sam?" 

Abby and I look at each other. 

"I won't tell Kristy," Mary Anne promises. 

I grip the wheel tight and grimace. "You tell her, Abby." 

And Abby does. 

Mary Anne is stunned into silence. 

No one speaks the rest of the way to the Sleepy Bear. For being the last days of November, the parking lot is fairly crowded. We roll through slowly, searching for Sam's car. We don't see it, but I pull into a space in front of the hotel entrance anyway. Abby volunteers to run in while Mary Anne and I wait. We watch her disappear through the front doors, then stand in line at the registration desk behind a middle-aged couple. 

"I talked to Kristy last night – " Mary Anne starts. 

"Kristy's a blabbermouth," I interrupt. 

Mary Anne doesn't speak for a moment. "That's Kristy," she agrees. "She steamrolls over everyone. That's a good point and a bad point about her." Mary Anne rests her chin on Abby's seat. "She's really upset over what you've done." 

"You know, Kristy Thomas is the least of my worries right now, Mary Anne," I snap at her. I lean back against my seat and drum my fingers on the steering wheel. What is taking Abby forever and a day? "I know Kristy's playing games with me. She's going to call the cops still, isn't she?" 

"Kristy isn't going to call the cops," Mary Anne says. "I admit, Pete, Ross, and I were going to. We thought you were being taken advantage of. We didn't realize that you were…" 

A _liar._

"…well…you know," Mary Anne continues. "Claudia and Erica told us to mind our own business. And Lauren…I don't know what Lauren wanted to do. Probably torment you for the rest of your life. You don't have to worry about her anymore." Mary Anne flips on the overhead light and turns the rearview mirror toward her. She wipes at the corner of her mouth. 

I start to feel guilty. We aren't really friends. We hardly know each other. And yet, Mary Anne dropped everything to come along. She didn't come to be nosy or lecture me. "Thanks for coming with us," I tell her, quietly. Inside at the registration desk, Abby's arguing with the desk clerk. I sigh and quit my drumming. "I know you had to leave your dinner." 

Mary Anne flips off the light. "That's okay. We were finished eating. It's probably best I left when I did. Sharon's decided she likes me this week, but who knows how long that'll last." 

"Oh." 

Abby runs out of hotel, curly hair flying behind her. She jumps in the car. "Drive!" she bellows at me. "They're calling the cops!" 

"What?" I shriek, throwing the car into reverse. 

"They wouldn't tell me if Sam was checked in, so I told them he was here with a minor. They said they're calling the cops!" 

"Great, Abby," I mutter, speeding out of the parking lot. 

We're a few miles down the road when Abby says, "You know, I bet they weren't really going to call the cops." 

Dear Lord, I hope not. "Which way to Kozy Kabins?" I ask. 

"Keep going straight," Mary Anne instructs. "Then make a right at the fork in the road." 

Five minutes later, we're pulling passed a wooden sign that reads: _Kozy Kabins_ in a cartoonish scrawl. Like at the Sleepy Bear, I roll slowly through the parking lot passed the individual cabins. I don't see Sam's car anywhere. I make a slow right and go around the back where more cabins sit near the lake. There aren't many cars. Then my headlights fall on one and illuminate it. 

I suck in my breath. Abby's jaw drops. 

"Is that…is that Tyler Austen's Firebird?" Abby gasps. 

I exhale and suck in another sharp breath. "Yes. Yes, it is," I reply, flatly. 

"Who is Tyler Austen?" Mary Anne asks, leaning forward. 

Abby explains because I can't. All words escape me. _What_ is wrong with Tiffany? I park four cabins down from the one Tyler's Firebird is parked in front of. Slowly, the three of us climb out of the car. 

"Don't freak out at her," Abby whispers. "Don't go beating down the door." 

We stop on the porch of cabin number seventeen. It's a cool night in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by stillness and silence, and it's very apparent what's going on inside the cabin. I slump back against the porch railing, eyes closed. 

"I'll get them to open the door," Mary Anne says and steps forward. She pounds her fist on the door. "Hello!" she calls, loudly. "It's the manager! The bathroom above you has flooded! I need to…check the pipes!" 

"They're in a cabin," I tell her. "There's no room above them." 

There's no light other than the moon, but I'm certain Mary Anne's blushing. 

But the door opens anyway. In the doorway stands Tyler Austen in a pair of plaid boxers. 

"Crap!" he cries when he sees me. 

I shove my way passed him and flick on the lights. 

"Shanny!" Tiffany screeches. She's on the bed wrapped in a white sheet. Her hair is damp and mussed. "God! Don't you have a boyfriend to be deceiving and screwing right now?" 

I pick her shirt and skirt up off the floor and toss them at her. "Put your clothes on and get in the bathroom _now_." 

Tiffany throws the clothes back at me, but she stands and flounces into the bathroom still wrapped in the sheet. Abby and Mary Anne hover in the doorway, where Tyler stands, white as Tiffany's sheet. As I follow Tiffany into the bathroom, I hear Abby say, "So…excited for baseball season to start?" 

I shut the bathroom door and lean back against it. "I've been looking for you for the last two hours," I tell her in a measured voice. 

"So? I never know where you are," Tiffany shoots back. "Oh, wait, you're at the _library_." 

"I thought you were with Sam again." 

"That cheesehead?" Tiffany scowls. "No! I called him yesterday to get the rest of my money and he refused. Thanks to you busting in on us, he didn't get to finish. Thanks a lot for that, Shanny!" 

I close my eyes and breathe in. "Two days ago, I caught you having sex with Sam Thomas and now I catch you having sex with Tyler Austen. Two different guys in as many days, Tiffany! What are you thinking?" I demand. 

"Tyler and I are back together." 

I stare at her. Is she insane? "Tyler called you stupid," I remind her. 

"No, he didn't!" she protests. "I misunderstood. Tyler explained it all to me today. He's been trying to explain all along, but I wouldn't listen. He didn't mean I'm dumb. He just meant that he doesn't care if I'm not a good student because he likes me _as a person_." 

"And you believe that?" 

Tiffany looks wounded, then angry. "Of course!" she shouts. 

How convenient for Tyler to explain this now after he knows she's sold herself to someone else. I sigh and frown at her. "Why are you here?" I ask. 

Tiffany rolls her eyes. "Because we obviously can't have sex in my bedroom without you bursting in. And apparently, we can't have sex here either," Tiffany answers, haughtily. "I'm making it up to him." 

"Not anymore. We're leaving." I open the bathroom door and grab her wrist and pull her through the doorway. 

Tiffany pulls back. "No! I'm not leaving!" she yells. 

"Yes, you are!" 

"No!" Tiffany slaps at me with her free hand and knocks me upside the head. I drop her wrist. Tiffany steps back into the bathroom and slams the door. The lock turns. 

"Shannon, let's go," Abby says, stepping into the room. She crosses to me and takes my hand, tugs it gently. "You can't make her leave. And do you really have a right to anyway?" 

I glare at Abby, but allow her to lead me out of the cabin. I narrow my eyes at Tyler as I pass him in the doorway. His ears turn bright red. He shuts the door when we're on the porch. 

"I'll drive home," Abby says. It's more of a command than a friendly offer. 

When we're in the car, leaving Kozy Kabins, I lean my head back against the seat and cover my eyes, so Abby and Mary Anne won't see me cry. 


	38. Chapter 38

I pass Abby in the hallway on Friday and we pretend there's nothing strange happening in our lives, that we are not falling to pieces in our own ways. Abby grins and waves. I return a small smile, hugging my books tight to my chest. A day and a half has passed since the night we found Tiffany in a hotel room with her second conquest of the week. A day and a half since Abby witnessed me losing control. She hasn't spoken of that night, not in any words greater than, "how's Tiffany?" I guess it's like how I ask, "how's Anna?" Simple questions with a hundred other questions hiding behind, lurking in their complexities and meanings. I wish to ask Abby more, but don't, and I know she feels the same. 

Lindsey eats with me today. She sets her lunch bag down across from mine and slides into her usual seat, her old seat. Sally White comes along a couple minutes later and dumps all her belongings on the table. She turns her lunch bag upside down, allowing all its contents to fall onto the table. A can of grape soda smashes her sandwich, but Sally doesn't seem to notice. She's eaten lunch with me all week. Now that our group has splintered, she's no longer the thorn in our collective side. She is my thorn to bear alone. 

"Greetings, Starshine, Miss Lemonhead," Sally says as she sits down. 

Lindsey's lips pucker instinctively. "I wish you'd stop calling me that," she says, crossly. 

"You wanted a nickname, didn't you?" 

Lindsey doesn't answer, continuing to make her face. I have to agree with Sally. Lindsey _did_ bemoan her lack of a nickname on several occasions. But I won't give Sally the satisfaction of agreeing with her. Instead, I unwrap my sandwich and take a large bite. 

"Be careful what you wish for," Sally tells Lindsey, pointing a carrot stick at her. "Starshine, are you going to eat your whole sandwich today? I have olive loaf again." 

"Yes, I am," I reply, curtly, even though I didn't intend to. Now I'll shove down my entire lunch if I must. 

"Oh, well," Sally sighs. "What's going on this weekend? I have to go to a fundraiser in New York for breast cancer research. My mother's hosting it. Dreadfully boring, isn't it?" Sally rolls her eyes. "Does anyone want to come?" 

I wrinkle my nose at her. "No," I scoff. Like I'd ever intentionally be in her company. "I have plans this weekend with my boyfriend." 

"Good God!" Sally exclaims, dropping her carrot stick. "You took Lindsey's horrifically frightening advice! Good God, Starshine. Are you _trying_ to kill this poor man?" 

"You know, you don't know anything about me or him or our situation, so _shut up_," I snap at her. I turn to Lindsey. "What are your plans tonight, Lindsey?" I ask her, pleasantly. 

Lindsey licks some blackberry yogurt off her spoon. "George and Sadie gave me permission to go on a date _at night_!" she cries, slapping a hand on the table. "At night! Alone with Ross. No chaperone! I guess they've decided Ross isn't going to impregnate me in the backseat of his Jeep or whatever insanity goes on in their minds." Lindsey laughs. 

"See what happens when you take my advice and stop eating your own hair?" Sally says, pointing another carrot stick at her. 

"I do not eat my hair!" Lindsey protests. 

Sally brushes the comment aside. "Now, see, Starshine, you should be more like Lindsey and listen to me. I won't steer you wrong." 

"Earlier this week, you almost steered me into a Corvette. I think I'll pass on whatever wisdom you have to dispense." I stand and lift my bag to my shoulder. "Enjoy the rest of my lunch," I tell her. "I'll see you later, Lindsey." 

I leave the cafeteria and head to the girls' restroom. It's empty. Finally, a little peace and quiet. I set my messenger bag on the counter and take out my cosmetics bag. Only two more periods until the weekend. Just thinking about it causes me to release a small sigh of relief. I intend to make this weekend one of restoration. I've already made up with Wes. Wednesday night at my house, then again last night on our date. A date that involved going out in public. It was fun, although I spent much of the time worrying and looking over my shoulder. I'm uncertain if Wes noticed. Then at his apartment, we made up twice more. 

Now I have to make up with Tiffany and Maria. I don't know how. There's no one to give me any guidance. Maria barely speaks to me. I saw her briefly yesterday, as she flew out the front door with her suitcase, off to stay with some other friend. She can't keep this up forever. She can't avoid me until I leave for college next year. And Tiffany spends a lot of time slamming doors and cabinets and shooting me venomous glares. 

I don't know how I am supposed to fix this. 

I put away my cosmetics bag and get out my hairbrush. I run the brush through my hair, staring at my reflection. I don't look good. I don't look good at all. Shouldn't love make me glow? Maybe everything else, all the bad things, cancels it out. 

The restroom door swings open and Tiffany storms in, moving very fast, clutching an armful of books to her chest. She screeches to an abrupt halt when she sees me. She narrows her eyes, mutters under her breath, and drops the books on the counter. Then she rips the hairbrush out of my hand. 

"Stop stealing my hairbrush!" she shouts, shaking it at me. "You have your own! Don't you have enough already? Stop stealing my things!" 

I hold up my hands. "I thought it was my hairbrush. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to _steal_ from you." 

Tiffany continues to glare at me. "My hairbrush has the pink handle, yours has the red handle. Try to remember that from now on. Now, I'm covering Marsha's shift tonight. Tyler's picking me up, so you don't have to worry about me. As if you would!" 

"Tiffany…" I start. 

Tiffany steps into a stall, mouth set in a firm line. "Please be gone when I come out," she says, coldly, and shuts the door. 

Reluctantly, I obey. 

Seventh and eighth period inch passed slowly. During study period, I manage to complete all my calculus homework, including a couple assignments I missed during the week. I'll still receive full credit. The last few weeks have not succeeded in lowering my teachers' opinions of me. I am still the same Shannon in their eyes. Shannon the perfect star student, who is simply a bit overwhelmed at the moment. It's special treatment I know I don't deserve. 

I'm walking out the front doors toward the parking lot when Amanda Kerner jogs up and falls into step beside me. I shift my eyes sideways toward her, wearily. My first thought is that Kristy has sent her to interrogate me or something. I've known Amanda almost my whole life. We grew up in the same neighborhood, although we've never been even anything close to friends. She's nice, if a bit intense and humorless. She attended Kelsey Elementary and Middle Schools, which is probably the reason we've only ever been on the most casual of friendly terms. We're on the yearbook staff together and in the Smart and Sober club. But Amanda is Kristy and Lindsey's friend. They're all on the softball team. 

"Hey, Shannon!" Amanda greets me in what sounds suspiciously like an overly-friendly tone. 

"Hi, Amanda," I reply, unenthusiastically. 

"You missed this week's Smart and Sober meeting," she tells me. 

"Yes, I know. Sorry." 

"It's all right," Amanda says, graciously, or so she thinks. "We're plotting out a lot of new ideas though, so don't miss again. We've decided to incorporate sexually transmitted diseases into one of the presentations. I guess there's a genital warts epidemic over at Stoneybrook High. First, alcohol poisoning and now genital warts! I am so glad I don't attend public school anymore! Anyway, Al and I are going over to Kristy's this evening to work on the presentation. Kristy's stepdad is making some sort of Mexican fiesta for dinner. We're having enchiladas and burritos and guacamole and chile con queso dip. It'll be a lot of fun. You'll come, right?" 

We stop beside my car and I begin searching for my car keys, avoiding the question. I can't go over to Kristy's house and honestly, even if I wasn't mad at Kristy, I have other concerns on my mind. The Smart and Sober club doesn't seem so important anymore. Not like it seemed last year. "Kristy didn't even come to school today," I tell Amanda, still peering into my bag, even though I see the keys at the bottom. 

Amanda shrugs. "Yeah, well, I'll call her when I get home. I'm sure the plan is still on. Will you come?" 

I finally take my keys out and look up at Amanda. I shift, uncomfortably, still wondering if Kristy put her up to this. And where _is_ Kristy? I can't recall the last time she missed a day of school. "I can't. Sorry, Amanda. Maybe next time," I tell her and unlock my door. ""I have to do something with my little sister. Maria. You know Maria." That isn't a complete lie. If Maria's actually at home, I thought we could bake brownies or something. I know that won't fix anything, but maybe it will help. 

Amanda nods. "Yeah…I know Maria," she replies and flips her light brown hair over her shoulder. It falls in limp curls down her back. "Listen…I kind of need to talk to you about something else." 

My stomach tightens. Oh no. What is it that Amanda knows and has to hold over me? "Oh…well, I have to get home. I need to pay the housekeeper," I say. 

"It's important." 

I shut the car door and sag against it. "Okay." 

Amanda frowns and turns her eyes downcast. I notice she's holding a folded paper in her left hand. "Do you remember in tenth grade when we had American history together? And we were writing those papers on Spanish settlement in California and the mission system? And we kept getting into those arguments because you felt the mission system was barbaric and I said the settlement was inevitable?" 

I sigh. "Yes, I remember." I don't see how this is possibly relevant to anything. 

"Well, I tutor this sophomore named Kiki and she got an A on her last paper," Amanda says, unfolding the paper and holding it out to me. 

I take the paper and flip over the title page. I still don't see the relevance. I scan the first page, then the second, my eyes widening with each line. "This…this is my paper!" I exclaim, quickly flipping to the third page. My jaw drops. "At least, the first three pages are mine. The fourth and fifth are different. Mostly." 

"Yeah, I remembered your introduction and your first paragraph. I disagreed with those the most," Amanda says. "Kiki admitted it wasn't her work. She said she bought the paper for fifty dollars." 

It's happened again! Anger rises inside me and I grip the paper tight. "Who did she buy it from?" I demand. "Tiffany or Greer?" 

Amanda bites her lip and shakes her head. "No…" she says. 

"Who?" 

"Abby Stevenson." 

And it all falls into place. 

I make it home in record time. I'm driving so fast I almost forget to stop inside the garage and nearly plow through the wall. I jump out of the car and run into the house, knocking into Mrs. Bryar in the laundry room. I don't apologize. My anger has grown with every second that has past since leaving SDS and now that anger consumes me. Abby Stevenson is a rat. A lying, thieving rat. I throw my bag onto the kitchen table and continue on through the house, huffing and stewing and thinking terrible things about Abby. Abby, my supposed friend. Abby, who offered me support as I searched for Tiffany. And all the time she's been stealing from me. 

In Dad's study, I retrieve my checkbook and scrawl out a check for Mrs. Bryar. Then I stab an open book on the desk with the pen. I toss the check at Mrs. Bryar as I stomp passed her in the kitchen. 

"I'll be at Abby's," I bark at her and don't wait for a reply. I storm out into the garage, then across the front yard, and finally across the street. I stop on Abby's front porch and take a deep breath. It doesn't help. I pound my fist on the door. I continue to pound until I hear Abby's sneakers scuffing across the foyer tile. 

"Tiffany didn't disappear again, did she?" Abby asks when she opens the door. She's already changed out of her uniform. She looks so innocent. Not at all like a rat. 

I scowl at her and hold up Kiki's paper. "Look familiar?" I demand, icily. 

Abby's face falls. "Oh…" she says, softly. 

"_Oh_," I mimic. 

"Um…" 

I shove my way into the house. I glance around the foyer, although I don't know what I'm searching for. I spin around to face Abby. "You sold my _Lord of the Flies_ paper to Greer, didn't you?" I demand. 

Abby nods. 

"How many more? How many more of my papers did you steal?" 

Abby shrugs. 

"You don't _know_?" 

"Six or seven," she admits. "I changed them a lot though! I used them more as an outline. Well, not that paper you have there so much. I don't know anything about the mission system, really. And…and I took a lot of your worksheets from physics and botany and stuff like that. I used them to…to do homework." 

I am dumbstruck. 

"I took them from your file cabinet," Abby tells me. She doesn't look at me. She crosses her arms and stares at the floor. "I took a few papers from Kristy and Lindsey, too. Some of their old homework, too. I took it all at the start of the school year. I'm sorry. I just…I couldn't keep up with my homework and all the homework I was doing for other people. You're all smart. You get A's on everything." 

My mouth hangs open. That isn't an excuse. That isn't an excuse at all! "You stole my homework and sold it to other kids? Why would you do that?" I ask, incredulously. Everything fits so neatly together now. All those afternoons and weekends Abby spent holed up in her house and at the library, claiming to work on homework. She really was working on homework. Just not her own. And that's why she seemed to forever be behind, never catching up. But the only piece that's missing is why. 

"I needed the money," Abby says, still looking at the floor. "I have…debts." 

"Debts? What debts could you possibly have?" I ask. And something occurs to me. Something I haven't given much suspicious consideration for weeks. "Abby…where is your car?" I ask. 

Abby finally looks up. Her eyes shift. I drop the paper and turn and run toward across the foyer into the kitchen toward the garage. Abby chases after me. I race through the laundry room with Abby on my heels and throw open the door to the garage. The garage is empty. 

"Where is your car?" I ask again. 

Abby starts to cry. 

It startles me. I turn to face her and watch the tears stream down her face. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. If I weren't so angry and betrayed, I would feel very sorry for her. 

"Mom sold it," Abby says. 

"Anna's too?" 

Abby nods. "She had to pay…she had to pay…someone back." 

It's freezing inside the garage and our voices echo in the emptiness. I hug myself, trying not to shiver. My insides are so hot that I should not feel the coldness. 

"It's my fault," Abby tells me. "I made a terrible mistake. A lot of terrible mistakes. It was Claudia's idea…but it's not really her fault. I wanted to go along with it." Abby hesitates and wipes her eyes again. "Over the summer," she says, "Claudia was dating this guy at her dad's firm, where she works in the mail room, you know. He was an intern or something. He was really into the stock market and he convinced Claudia to let him invest her money." 

"How does Claudia have any money?" I demand. "She works in a _mail room._" 

Abby hesitates again. "She…she drained her college fund. It's not like she was going to use it for _college_. She couldn't even finish high school! And then – it was so stupid, Shannon – I let Claudia convince me to do the same. I had access to my college fund and I took out the money. All of it. Claudia's boyfriend seemed to know what he was doing. She said he did. But then, he sort of lost our money." 

"All of it?" I gasp. "Your entire college fund?" 

Abby nods. "Yes. All of it. So, then, we thought we could get it back. Claudia said we could try something else and her boyfriend suggested we place some bets…" 

I close my eyes, tight. Dear Lord. Maybe Kristy's been right about Claudia all along. 

"But we needed some more money, of course, so…I sort of took it out of Anna's college fund." 

My eyes snap open. "What?" I cry, not believing I heard correctly. There's no way. There's no way Abby would steal from her own sister. 

"I pretended to be her at the bank. It _seemed_ like a good idea at the time," Abby insists, although I don't see how she can possibly believe that. "And at first, Claudia and I were winning and then, we made some really, really bad bets. That was my fault. I let Claudia choose the teams based on which uniforms she liked. We lost all the money and then this bookie came after us and – " 

I cut her off. "You're making this up, right? This is an absolute lie, right? You and Claudia cannot possibly, in reality, be this stupid." 

Abby sucks in her breath and appears hurt. "No, it's the truth. So, this guy came to collect what we owed and of course, there was no more money. I had to tell Mom what we'd done and…oh, God, she was mad. She paid part of the debt, but she's pretty overextended herself. I mean, the brand new cars, the killer mortgage payment, our tuitions, that vacation home she bought us in Maine, which we never visit, and will probably have to sell anyway. So, she sold our cars. That covered the rest of what I owed and Mom was able to put back _some_ of Anna's money." 

I clutch my head. This has to be a joke. Abby's trying to confuse me, so I'll stop being mad about the stolen homework. "Dear Lord, Abby. How much money did you lose?" I cry. 

"A lot." 

That really doesn't tell me anything. "So, this is what you've been hiding? You and Anna? This is what Anna wanted to tell me, but you wouldn't let her? But Abby, I don't understand…it seems like Anna's blaming your _mom_, not you." 

Abby slumps back against the wall, leans her head back into it. She rests her hands on her stomach, fingers intertwined, face expressionless. "Anna doesn't know the truth," she admits in a strange, flat voice. "Mom told Anna…Mom told Anna the debts were hers. That Mom cleaned out our college funds and lost all our money. That's how Anna found out…about that…that baby…" Abby grimaces. "She was searching for bank statements." 

I cover my mouth with my hand. "You let your mother take the fall?" I whisper. "Anna hates her now! And no wonder!" 

Tears stream down Abby's cheeks again. "I know, I know, I know," she wails, voice cracking. "I don't want Anna to know what I've done to her! It's all my fault! And now I can't go away to college next year. No one's going to recruit me. The SDS teams suck. It doesn't matter how good I am. I am only a star on an incompetent team. The girls at SHS, they're super stars on a team of super stars. If I had gone to SHS…if I had…" Abby's voice breaks off. "I probably won't even be able to go to Stoneybrook University! It's still expensive. My grades aren't that good. No one will give me a scholarship. Anna will get a scholarship, but I won't. That's why I stole all those papers and why I'm doing everyone else's homework." 

"I'm sorry, Abby," I tell her, then my voice tightens. "But that's really no excuse. You stole from your friends and you cheated. You could be expelled from school! And worst of all, look at what you've done to your mother and sister. You need to tell Anna the truth." 

Abby stops crying and laughs. It isn't Abby's regular, jovial laugh. It's biting and bitter. "Oh, oh, don't lecture me, Shannon Kilbourne," she says. "You aren't any better than me. You're a liar, too. I didn't judge you. Don't you dare judge me." 

"This isn't the same at all," I protest. 

Abby laughs again. 

I glower at her. 

"Kristy's right," Abby tells me. "You are selfish." 

"And you're a cheat. A cheat and a thief and a liar." 

"Takes one to know one." 

"And immature!" I add, furiously. I stomp toward the door, passing Abby on the way. "I won't turn you in. Just stop selling my papers." 

"I won't turn you in either," she promises a bit nastily. 

I open the door and shoot her a final dirty look. Then I leave. I leave Abby slumped back against the wall. She's crying again. And I don't care. 


	39. Chapter 39

I'm standing in the kitchen beating three eggs together in a plastic bowl when Maria walks in wearing her pea coat and holding her suitcase in one hand. 

"Wherever you think you're going, you're not," I inform her. "I'm making you brownies." 

"Yeah, that'll make up for everything," Maria replies, sarcastically. "I'm staying over at David Michael Thomas'. Call us when the brownies are ready and I'll send David Michael Thomas over for them." 

I drop the whisk and stare at Maria. "You are not spending the night with your eleven year old boyfriend," I tell her. 

Maria lifts her chin, defiantly. "Nannie already gave me permission. Don't worry, Shanny. I won't do anything that you and Tiffany would!" Maria shouts, then whirls around and storms out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, the front door slams behind her. 

Mom calls while I'm pouring the batter into a pan. She apologizes that she must extend her business trip another day…or two. She doesn't sound apologetic though. She's giggling, then hangs up before I can tell her anything about our lives at home. I slide the brownies into the oven and set the timer, then wander into the living room and flop on the couch with the cordless phone. 

"I'm having a rotten day," I inform Wes without a proper greeting. 

"What's going on?" 

"You know my friend, Abby? The one across the street?" 

"Oh, yeah…from the volleyball game, right?" 

"Yes. That's her. I found out she's been stealing my old papers. You know, from when I went to SDS and she's selling them to other kids!" 

"What?" Wes exclaims. 

"I know! It's despicable. She has all these gambling debts or something. And she's letting her mother take the blame, so her sister's mad at their mom, and it's just a big mess. I can't believe her. I can't believe she would betray my trust like that," I say. I cover my face with my hands and groan. "Maria left again. She went across the street to stay at her boyfriend's house. And there's no one to make her come home! Mom isn't coming home tonight, like she promised and Dad's probably meeting a hooker or something. Oh, and I get the feeling Tiffany doesn't plan on coming home either." 

There's a short silence on Wes' end. "Your family is really screwed up," he finally says. "Don't you have any…uh…normal relatives to call? You can't handle this on your own anymore." 

I start to protest, _I'm handling it fine_, but I know it would be a lie. One of my biggest lies. I'm not handling anything anymore. "No," I answer, softly. "There's no one else." 

"You don't have any relatives?" Wes asks, surprised. 

"All my grandparents are dead. Dad has a sister in…Illinois? They don't get along and we've not seen her for years. Mom's brothers both died in a car accident in high school. There isn't anyone. There's only me." And I'm not worth much now. 

There's another pause. "Have you ever…uh…considered maybe speaking to someone at social services?" Wes asks. "Maybe they could help – " 

"No!" I cry, cutting him off. "They'll take my sisters away!" 

"Not necessarily." 

"Wes, I can't believe you would even suggest that! It's not even an option." I tell him. Is he crazy? Enough people know our business already. I don't want all of Stoneybrook to know what goes on inside this house. 

"I'm sorry," Wes apologizes. "It was just an idea. So, what are you doing now? In a little while, I'm leaving to go watch my cousin's basketball game at SHS. Do you want to come? My parents will be there and you can meet my aunt and cousins." 

Enough people at SHS know my business, too. "No thanks, Wes. I think I'd rather stay here. Maybe next time," I say. Or maybe never. 

"Oh, okay. But my mom wanted me to ask if you want to come to dinner tomorrow night? Mom and Dad want to tell you all about the house in Miami and start planning what you'd like to see and do while we're there. They're really excited that you're coming. So am I." 

I sit up and fold my knees to my chest. I doubt I'll even make it to Miami. Can I possibly keep this up that long? And I don't want to see his parents again, no matter how nice they are. Mrs. Ellenburg's already suspicious of me. There's no telling what more she'll wheedle out of me. But I want to make Wes happy. I want him to believe we're in a normal relationship and I am a normal girlfriend. "That sounds fantastic, Wes," I say, as enthusiastically as possible. "Call me tonight when you get home and we'll talk more about it." 

"Sure! I'll talk to you later, Shannon. I love you." 

"I love you, too." 

Just as I hang up the oven timer buzzes. I toss the phone aside and walk back into the kitchen, where I remove the brownie pan from the oven. I set it on the stove to cool. Then I go upstairs to my bedroom to work on some homework. Homework will distract me. But I can't concentrate. All I think about are all the people I've disappointed and all who have disappointed me. Twenty minutes later, I've only completed half of question one of my microbiology homework. I close the book with a sigh and head back downstairs. I cut the brownies and pile them on one of Mom's serving platters, then dial Kristy's phone number. If anyone but David Michael or Emily Michelle answer, I'll hang up. But no one answers. I reach a busy signal. 

It's getting dark out, so I begin closing the blinds and curtains. While I'm pulling the dining room curtains closed, my gaze falls kitty-corner across the street. I gasp. There are three police cars parked in Kristy's driveway. 

"Oh, no," I whisper to myself. My first worry turns to Nannie and Watson. Has something happened to them? Nannie's not exactly young and Watson had a heart attack a few years ago. But there are no ambulances, only the police cars. Then my mind turns to Kristy. She didn't come to school today and Kristy never misses school. 

I run out of the house without locking the front door. I barely remember to shut it. My feet carry me fast down the street and across the yard. Has something happened to Kristy? Why hasn't Maria come for me? 

Kristy's front door is wide open and I rush right in, passed two police officers standing in the foyer, talking on walkie-talkies. I hear voices in the living room and that's where I head, halting to a quick stop in the doorway. I pause, catching my breath, and scan the room with my eyes, making a mental checklist of who is accounted for and who is not. Maria and David Michael sit together in an overstuffed armchair. Maria's holding his hand and speaking softly to him. There are dried tears on David Michael's cheeks. Kristy's on the couch nearest to me, seated between Amanda Kerner and Al Hall. Amanda's arm is around Kristy's shoulders and Amanda's leaning toward her, whispering. On Kristy's other side, Al's fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. 

On the other couch sit Elizabeth, Janet, and Nannie. Elizabeth doesn't see me in the doorway. She's focused on some distant point on the wall, staring, and biting her thumb knuckle. It looks like she's been crying. Janet is crying, sobbing into her hands, face hidden from us all. Behind the couch, Watson and Janet's parents, Dr. and Mrs. Gates stand near the fireplace, speaking to two police officers. Watson rubs his forehead while the Gates' look rather cross, arms folded tightly over their chests, shaking their heads. 

"What's happened?" I ask, voice ringing into the room. 

Everyone's head snaps toward me. They stare. 

"Sam's gone," Kristy says, so quietly I almost don't hear. 

I glance around the room, for the first time noticing that Sam is not present. 

"What do you mean he's gone?" I ask, perplexed. 

"He's gone," Kristy repeats. Her eyes are rimmed bright red. She's been crying, too. 

"He isn't gone," David Michael snaps from the armchair. "He's _missing_. Something bad has happened to him!" 

Maria takes his hand and pats it comfortingly. 

Al jumps up off the couch. "Well…" Al says to Kristy. "Shannon's here now. We should probably go. Shannon will…er…take care of you. Come on, Amanda, I'll walk you home." 

Amanda looks unsurely from me to Kristy. "I can stay," she tells Kristy. 

Kristy shakes her head. "No. It's okay. Thanks for staying this long." 

Amanda rises from the couch. "I'm sorry about your brother," she says. 

"Yeah, sorry," echoes Al. 

Kristy nods her head and stares down at her hands, which are folded in her lap. 

Amanda and Al slip passed me in the doorway, offering small smiles. I remain in the doorway a moment, standing awkwardly. Everyone has returned to their previous conversations, or vacant staring, taking no further notice of me. Kristy sits alone on the couch now, still watching her own hands, fingers laced together. I enter the living room, finally, and sit beside her on the couch. 

"What's happened?" I ask because, really, no one's told me anything. 

"Sam left. No one's seen him since Tuesday night. Janet just today had the courtesy to inform everyone. She said she thought he would come back," Kristy explains, still speaking far too quietly for Kristy. "Mom and Watson called the police. The police found Sam's car at the bus station. He's gone, Shannon. He left just like my dad." Kristy sniffles and dabs at her eye with a tissue. "He's just like our dad. I never thought…" 

"Shut up, Kristy!" David Michael yells. I'm not sure how he overheard. Kristy's speaking so softly. "That's not what happened!" 

"David Michael…" says Elizabeth in a strained and weary voice. 

David Michael glares at Kristy then turns his glare on Janet and his mother. "Thanks a lot, Janet, for making Sam leave!" David Michael shouts, nastily. 

"_David Michael_!" Elizabeth warns, her voice rising. 

Janet's sobs grow louder. I don't understand. Janet's crying over Sam? The same Sam she claimed to hate? It's a sickening thought that maybe Janet actually loved Sam. How could she? 

"I'll get you a soda," Maria tells David Michael, releasing his hand. She stands and leaves the living room without ever once looking in my direction. 

"I'm so sorry, Kristy," I tell her. That is a lie. If Sam is truly gone, I am not sorry. But I am sorry for Kristy that she had to realize who her brother is this way. "I guess that's why you didn't come to school today." 

"No, Nannie and I, we had…um…something to do. We didn't find out about Sam until this afternoon. How could he leave, Shannon? How could he just get up and walk away? Without a word? He left Amy and he left us. I mean, I don't really blame him for leaving Janet, but…" Kristy lays her head on my shoulder. It's odd because I've been so angry with her all week. I wondered if we were still friends. Are we? I don't know. "I tried calling Abby," Kristy tells me. "She didn't answer, so I sent Al over to get her. I guess she's not home. I tried to call Mary Anne, too. She's not home either." 

Kristy never called me. It's like a light punch in the stomach, slightly shocking and dull in pain, but not altogether surprising. But it hurts, in a way, just the same. 

"Are the police searching for Sam?" I ask. 

"Yes. They're treating it as a missing person case. Sam didn't take anything with him really. Just his backpack and some clothes. Janet's convinced he isn't coming back and – " Kristy lowers her voice further. "Mom thinks so, too. But the police aren't ruling anything out so fast. It's because Sam's Watson Brewer's stepson." Kristy turns her eyes upward at me. "You know what? Mom and Janet are right. Sam's not coming back." 

I hope not. I want him far from Tiffany. I want him far from everyone I love. 

"I'm sorry, Kristy," I say, again, when there's nothing else to say. I stroke her hair, like my mother did for me when I was small. 

Kristy and I sit together awhile longer. I continue stroking her hair. She cries a little. Across from us, David Michael and Maria are seated together again, David Michael sipping from the soda Maria fetched him, and glaring alternatively at Kristy and Janet. The police finish speaking with Watson and the Gates' and say a few words to Elizabeth, then leave. I suppose they've already spoken to Janet. Janet's stopped sobbing. Her mother stands behind her, massaging her shoulders. Mrs. Gates still looks cross and since I've only met her a couple times, I don't know if that's her normal expression or not. Elizabeth has her hand on Janet's knee, but continues to stare into the distance, biting her knuckle. 

Janet rises from the couch and crosses to me. She folds her arms and stares down at me, her cheeks streaked with black mascara. "May I speak to you, Shannon?" she requests in a wavering voice. Tears begin rolling from her eyes again. 

"Sure," I say and stand, assuming Janet wishes to speak to me in private. 

She does. Janet leads me out of the living room and through the foyer. I follow, a bit apprehensively. If she's truly upset about Sam, maybe she blames Tiffany. Maybe Janet intends to tell. Janet takes me into Watson's office and shuts the door behind us. I stand in the center of the room, instinctively crossing my arms, preparing to become defensive. Janet's back is to me and when she turns to me, her eyes are dry and she's laughing. 

My first thought is, _Dear Lord, Janet's lost her mind_. My second thought is, _Dear Lord, Janet's murdered Sam._

"God," Janet says, wiping her right cheek with the back of her hand. "How long do you think I have to keep up the theatrics? I didn't wear waterproof mascara on purpose, you know. I thought it'd make my performance more believable." Janet laughs again, low and deep in her throat. "God, can you believe the drama over _Sam_?" She rolls her eyes. 

"Did you kill Sam?" I ask, seriously. 

Janet laughs. "No! God, no. But I did break one of my mom's dinner plates over his head when he came home Tuesday night. He wept like a baby. And then…" Janet bites her lip, shaking with suppressed laughter. "And then, I told him the police came to the door looking for him because you told your parents about him having sex with Tiffany, and that your parents were pressing charges. I told him he was being charged with statutory rape, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and soliciting a prostitute. I acted really upset about it, too. I even cried. Sam almost wet himself. I swear. You would not believe how fast he was up the stairs, shoving clothes into his backpack. I promised to give him a decent head start." 

I am slightly disturbed, but mostly I am relieved. 

"I told you," Janet says, "that I'd take care of Sam." Janet slaps her hands together. "And now, I've washed my hands of him. He's never coming back. I doubt he planned to stick around much longer anyway. You have no idea how long I've been waiting for him to just disappear. My parents are so pleased. They regret ever pushing for the marriage. But they're worried Watson or the police will track Sam down. God, I hope not!" 

"I…I'm so happy for you," I tell her. What else can I say? 

"Thank you," Janet replies. "Perhaps now everyone in this house will treat me a little better." Janet whirls around and strides out of the room. She's sobbing again the moment she hits the doorway of the living room. 

I don't know what to think. I am simply grateful that Sam Thomas is gone. I hope Janet is correct. I hope he never returns. 

Kristy's walking down the stairs when I enter the foyer, wearing her jacket. "I have to go get Emily Michelle," she tells me. "Mom sent her over to the Papadakises before the police arrived. Mom didn't want her here for that." 

"I'll walk you," I offer. "Hang on." I return to the living room and stand beside Maria and David Michael's armchair. "Maria, please get your things. You need to come home for the night." 

Maria shakes her head. "No," she says. 

"Maria…" I sigh. "Elizabeth and Watson have enough to deal with tonight." I hold out my hand. "Please come home. Please?" 

"No." 

"She can stay," Elizabeth speaks up from the couch. She waves her hand, dismissively. "It doesn't matter." 

Maria sticks her tongue out at me. 

"Fine. Be a burden then," I tell her. 

"That's what I am," Maria replies. 

I stare at her a moment, then turn and leave. She may act like a child if she wishes. And the Thomas-Brewers can encourage it if they so desire. I can't force Maria to do anything. She's made that abundantly clear. 

As Kristy and I cross the street, she says, "Charlie's on his way home. He finished his last final today. He'll be here soon. I'm glad." 

I nod and don't say anything. 

"I haven't been a very good friend to you, Shannon," Kristy says. 

"I know," I agree. "But it's okay." 

"I'm going to be a better friend." 

"Good," I reply. "Me too." 

We stop outside my house. We say goodbye and part ways. The lights are on inside my house since I didn't turn them off before running over to Kristy's. I know there's no one home. I sit down on the steps and rest my chin in my hands. The porch light isn't on, so I sit in the dark. I watch Kristy walk Emily Michelle back across the street. I am thankful Kristy is on my side again. We'll be friends like we once were. I won't disappoint her anymore and maybe she won't judge me. 

The night's cold and I pull my skirt tight over my knees and shiver. Down the street, I hear tires squeal around a curve. In a few moments, headlights shine down McLelland, blazing from a roaring car that's moving much too fast. The tires screech again as the car flies up my driveway and into the front yard. Actually _into_ the front yard, sailing over the curb and drive and landing atop Tiffany's camellias. I scream and scramble to my feet as the car finally stops. 

It's Lindsey's car. 

The driver's side door opens and Lindsey tumbles out and rushes toward me, hair billowing behind her, free of its braid. In the dimness of the street lamps, I see Lindsey's face twisted in rage. 

"Ross Brown dumped me!" she screeches, so loud her throat must burn. 

I gasp. Oh, no. Oh, no. 

"He dumped me in a booth at Renwick's!" she screams. "While we were eating dessert!" Then Lindsey really screams. Fierce and piercing, burning into the silence of McLelland Road, setting it ablaze. 

Porch lights flicker on up and down the street. 

I rush to Lindsey and grab her wrist. "Come inside," I order, panicking, pulling her toward the house. 

Lindsey breaks loose of my grip, but complies with my request, barreling into the house. I chase after her, flipping on the lights as we cross through the foyer into the living room. 

Lindsey whirls around. She looks strange, pale face framed by pale hair. She almost looks sickly and unreal. She isn't wearing a coat or sweater, only tan pants and a white spaghetti-strapped tank top. She crosses her arms and scratches at her arms. "Ross said it wasn't working," she tells me, voice much calmer, but eerie. "He said we should just be friends. He said I'm very nice. He said a lot of things and they were _all lies_! George and Sadie aren't sympathetic. This is what they wanted! This is what they planned all along! They sabotaged me!" 

I stare at her in shock. Should I call her grandparents? Should I call the Papadakises or Kormans? They could be here much faster. 

"Lindsey…" I say as soothingly as possible. "Your grandparents would never do that." 

"Yes, they would! They want me to be miserable! They want me to be sick! They did this to my mother! They say I am just like her! 'You are just like Charmaine', that's what they say! Sadie says I'm going to drive her to drink, just like my mother did. I am not my mother! And they are not sending me away! They are not sending me away like they did her!" 

"What?" I ask, confused. "You said your mother _ran_ away." Of course, Lindsey's said many things that I know are not true. 

"She ran away because they were sending her away again. Sending her back to that horrible, horrible place. And now that's where they want to send me. They're planning it. I know it. I hear them talking late at night. They think I can't hear. But I do. I hear _everything_." Lindsey starts pulling on her hair and pacing the floor. 

"I'm calling your grandparents," I inform her. "You don't look well." I start toward the cordless phone that's lying on the couch where I left it. 

Lindsey blocks my path. "No!" she bellows. "No! I'm not sick! I am perfectly fine! And I _am_ taking my medication. No one ever believes me! Dr. Petrinski said it would take some time to get it all in my system. She said I was under-medicated before. I've fixed that. Don't worry, Shannon. I fixed it. Too much is better than too little. Better safe than sorry." Lindsey moves away from me and resumes scratching at her arms. 

I have no idea what she's talking about. 

"Why doesn't anyone ever want me!" Lindsey screams, bending to her knees. "Why does everyone leave me?" 

I'm about to run out the front door to get Mr. and Mrs. Papadakis when headlights shine through the blinds in the formal living room. Two car doors slam. I race through the foyer and flick on the porch lights, then throw open the front door. The Drs. Dupree are crossing the driveway. Mister Dr. Dupree's fully dressed, but Dr. Dupree's in a long white nightgown and a mint green silk robe. She isn't wearing any shoes. 

"She's in the living room!" I shout to them. I didn't realize I was so panicked. 

"I'm not coming home with you!" Lindsey shrieks the moment her grandparents enter the house. She points a finger at them, accusingly. "You want me to be sick!" 

"Calm down!" Mister Dr. Dupree exclaims. 

"I am calm!" 

"You're – " but whatever her grandfather intends to say he thinks better of it. Instead he marches over and grabs her around the waist. 

Dr. Dupree pulls on the belt of her robe. "I can't do this again," she informs her husband. "I can't." 

"Is Lindsey…" I almost say "okay" but clearly she is not. 

"She'll be fine," Dr. Dupree assures me, briskly. "She's upset. That's all." 

Lindsey thrashes in her grandfather's arms as he carries her out of the living. "I'm sorry," he says, as he passes me. 

Dr. Dupree follows him and I follow her. Lindsey's still kicking as we walk down the front steps and across the lawn. When she and her grandfather reach Dr. Dupree's station wagon, Lindsey's entire body suddenly goes limp. Her grandfather sets her in the backseat and closes the door. 

"I think her car keys are still in the ignition," I tell Dr. Dupree. 

"I'm sorry about your yard," she replies. "I'll call your parents tomorrow." 

"They won't be here." 

Dr. Dupree gives me a brief, peculiar look, then starts across the lawn toward Lindsey's car. Mister Dr. Dupree's already backing out of the driveway in the station wagon. Lindsey never appears at the window. Dr. Dupree backs out of the flower bed and off my front lawn and the car bounces as it falls back off the curb. I watch both cars disappear into the night. 

I've never been so concerned about Lindsey. Not when she heard a voice in my kitchen. Not when she hit Kristy with the bat. And I don't understand what's wrong with her. I don't know what I can do. Is Lindsey deranged? I suspect she may be. How did I never realize? 

I don't want to be alone. I lie on the couch and dial Kristy's phone number. Watson answers and I request he send Maria home. He calls back two minutes later and says Maria refuses to leave. He suggests I allow her to stay and work out whatever problem we have in the morning. My face flames with embarrassment as I hang up. Watson's very nice about the whole thing, acting like not anything's wrong there or even more wrong here. 

Next I dial Tiffany's work number. 

"Are you coming home tonight?" I ask when she comes on the line. 

"Who is this?" Tiffany demands. 

"Tiffany!" 

Tiffany sighs, exasperated. "Well…if you won't say…" 

"Fine. I take that as a no." 

Tiffany hangs up. 

Astrid wanders into the living room then. I realize no one's fed her dinner. We go into the kitchen together and I pour fresh kibble into her dish along with a can of her favorite dog food. I sit at the table, watching her eat for a while. Then I call Wes. 

"You didn't call me when you got home," I inform him. Or maybe he did. I haven't been upstairs. 

"I just walked in the door. Really. My keys are still in my hand." 

I sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm having an awful night. I have so much to tell you. How was the basketball game?" 

"Stoneybrook High lost." 

"Is your cousin on varsity?" 

"No, junior varsity. He isn't very good. Never tell anyone in my family I said that! After the game we went out to dinner at Chez Maurice. So, what's been so awful about your night? You already had a rotten day." 

"I know. It got worse. Can I come over?" 

"Sure!" 

I pause a moment, thinking. "Can I…can I stay overnight?" I ask. I've never done that before. There's always been someone here to come home to. 

"Sure! Yes. That would be really great." 

"All right. I'll be over in about twenty minutes." 

I hang up the phone and let Astrid outside, then run up the stairs to collect my things. 


	40. Chapter 40

When I awake in the morning, I'm momentarily confused as to where I am. I open my eyes, sleepily, and lift my head from the pillow. I turn my head and see Wes asleep beside me, lying on his stomach, face turned away from me. Of course. I'm at Wes' apartment. I yawn and rub my eyes, trying to awaken properly. I check the alarm clock on the nightstand. It's eight o' clock. Something heavy pounces on my back, startling me. I crane my neck around and see Darth Vader, the demon cat, staring at me with her creepy red-orange eyes. She begins kneading my back, first gently, then digs her claws in, deep and hard. 

"Ow!" I hiss and swipe at her. She hops off and moves onto Wes' back. She curls up and continues staring at me. I hate that cat. I wonder how I can get rid of her. If I left the patio door open, would she run away? Last night, I heard her scratching at the bedroom door around one a.m. Wes got up and let her in, then she spent the rest of the night sleeping between us, pushing against my shoulder and side with her feet. I seriously believe she was trying to shove me out of the bed. 

I roll out of bed and go into the bathroom. I splash cool water on my face, then begin brushing my teeth. While doing that, I search for a clean towel, finally finding one in the hall closet. I pull aside the shower curtain and turn on the water, then rinse out my mouth and lift my nightgown over my head, allowing it to fall in a heap on the floor. I step beneath the warm spray, letting it soak my hair and slide down my body. I hear Wes moving around in his bedroom. 

The bathroom door opens. I poke my head out from behind the curtain. "I'll hurry," I tell Wes. 

"No, hurry," Wes replies. He lifts his white t-shirt over his head. "I'm coming in with you." 

"You are not!" I protest and slide the curtain closed again. 

Wes steps into the shower anyway. 

"There isn't enough room," I inform him. 

"There's plenty of room," Wes argues. "I'll wash your hair for you," he offers, taking his Paul Mitchell shampoo off the shelf. He squeezes some onto his palm, then begins massaging it into my scalp. I tilt my head back and close my eyes. It feels very nice, I must admit. I rinse out my hair, then Wes works the conditioner in with his fingers. 

"You should have been a shampoo boy," I tell him. 

Wes laughs. "Hey, if this teaching thing doesn't work out, maybe that's my second calling. My mother would be thrilled." 

"Please don't mention your mother while we're in the shower together." 

"Oh. Sorry," Wes replies. He takes a bar of light blue soap off the shelf. It smells strong and sharp and clean. Not at all like the perfumed soaps I use at home. Wes begins lathering my body, his hands working tenderly into my skin. "You need to stay over more often," Wes says and kisses my neck. 

"I intend to," I say and lift my face, so the spray hits it dead on. 

Wes is dressed and ready long before I am. While I stand at the bathroom sink, brushing out my wet hair, Wes goes into the kitchen to make breakfast. I don't recall the last time anyone made breakfast for me. I suspect it was probably Watson or Elizabeth. Maybe that wasn't so long ago, but it feels very far in the past. 

"Do you have a hair dryer?" I call to Wes. 

"Under the sink!" 

I plug in the hair dryer and tilt my head to the side, the hot air hitting my cool head. I watch Wes bustle around the kitchen, the cat weaving in and out around his legs. I smile. This is how I want every day to be. 

Wes makes me pancakes. He doesn't even burn them, which he says should really impress me. Considering that I can't not burn a pancake, it does. We sit across from each other at the card table and begin eating. I can't stop smiling. 

"You look very happy," Wes observes. 

"I am. You make me happy." 

Wes grins. 

I take a large bite of pancake and chew slowly. When I swallow, I sip my orange juice and ask, "When are you getting a real table?" 

"I've always said I would never give my mother the satisfaction," Wes answers, still grinning. "Everything about this apartment kills her. The card table most of all. But maybe I _should_ get a real table. We can pick it out together." 

I nod. "Yes, there's a fantastic furniture store in Mercer. My mom furnished our entire house from there, practically." 

"We can go after breakfast," Wes suggests. 

I glance at my watch. It's nearly ten o' clock. I'm torn. I love these little domestic moments and shopping for furniture together would only make the feeling so much stronger. But there are other things still weighing at the back of my mind. "Well…" I begin, hesitantly. "I should go home and check on Maria. I don't want her hanging around Kristy's house all day, not when the family is in crisis. And I need to call my other friend and make sure she's all right." Last night, I told Wes some of what went on during my evening, at Kristy's and then later at my own house with Lindsey. He seems to appreciate this side of me, a side that doesn't keep everything a mystery. 

Wes appears disappointed. "That's all right," he says. "I have a lot of papers to grade, actually. But don't forget, we're having dinner with my parents." 

"I haven't forgotten," I assure him. I manage a smile, pretending to look forward to the evening. "I'll come over this afternoon when I finish everything I need to do. We can go furniture shopping tomorrow. Maybe I'll stay over again." 

"That would be nice," Wes says with a smile. 

We finish breakfast and wash the dishes together. Wes stands behind me at the sink, arms around me, and nibbles my ear. He slips his hands underneath my sweater and rests his hands on my stomach. They're very warm. I close my eyes and lean back into him. This is the best morning I've had in a long, long time. 

When it's time for me to leave, Wes walks me to the door. We stand in the doorway awhile, kissing and saying goodbye. When he finally lets me go, I button my coat and begin down the walkway, hands deep in my coat pockets. Across the courtyard, I see that Lauren girl on her balcony railing, legs stretched out in front of her. She's wearing colorful polka dot pajamas with bright yellow slippers on her feet. She's eating a bowl of cereal. I know she sees me, even though she doesn't acknowledge my presence in any way. 

At home, I pull into my parking spot beside Dad's BMW. Most of the lights are on when I enter the house. Dad's trotting down the stairs dressed in his golf clothes, as I'm on my way up. We stop in the middle of the stairs and regard each other. 

Dad points a finger at me. "Have you been out all night?" he asks me. 

"I spent the night at my boyfriend's," I reply. 

"Oh. Okay. I'm meeting Phil and Cal for a round of golf. I'll see you later," Dad says and continues down the stairs, completely unruffled by what I said. He turns around at the bottom of the stairs and points his finger at me again. "Hey, be safe," he says. "Remember I said that." 

"Thanks, Dad," I mutter and resume the climb up the staircase. 

When I reach the landing, I'm surprised to hear Maria's voice coming from her bedroom. I pause in the open doorway. Maria's sitting on her bed, fully dressed, propped against some pillows, talking on the phone. 

"Who are you talking to?" I ask. 

"Just a minute please," Maria says, politely, to the other person on the line. She covers the mouthpiece. "I'm talking to Mrs. Bryar," she informs me, coolly. 

I arch an eyebrow. She's on the phone with Mrs. Bryar? 

Maria flicks her wrist at me, a gesture to leave. I spin around and slowly walk away. Maria returns to her conversation. I hear her say, "Shannon just got home. I think she spent the night with her boyfriend last night…No, I wasn't alone. I was at David Michael Thomas'…" 

I halt in the center of the hallway and grit my teeth. It's all I can do to not bound back into Maria's bedroom and rip the phone from her hand. Then beat her senseless with it. What is she doing, airing our business all over Stoneybrook? I take a deep breath and continue into my bedroom. There are no messages on the answering machine. I remove my coat and lay it on the bed, then drag the phone from my desk over to the bed, where I sit down. I dial Kristy's phone number. I reach a busy signal. I hang up and dial Lindsey's number. Her grandmother answers after five rings. 

"May I speak to Lindsey?" I ask. "This is Shannon." 

There's a short silence. "I'm sorry, Shannon," Dr. Dupree replies. "Lindsey's still asleep." 

"Should I call back later?" 

"No…no…" Dr. Dupree says with hesitation. "She'll be asleep for awhile. You'll see her at school on Monday. You may speak to her then." 

I furrow my brow. On Monday? Lindsey can't possibly sleep for two days straight. "I can't speak to her before then? Maybe this afternoon? Or tomorrow?" 

"No. I'm sorry. That isn't possible." 

This is bizarre. "Um…okay. Tell Lindsey I hope she…feels better. Goodbye, Dr. Dupree." 

"Goodbye, Shannon." 

I stare at the receiver for a moment, perplexed, listening to the dial tone I try Kristy again, but the line's still busy. I return the phone to its place on the desk and cross the hall to Maria's room. She's off the phone with Mrs. Bryar, after telling her who knows what, and is now reading the entertainment section of the newspaper. 

"What were you talking to Mrs. Bryar about?" 

Maria shrugs. 

"You must have been talking about something." 

"I called to tell her about Sam running away." 

"What else did you tell her?" 

"Nothing." 

I watch her for a moment. Maria turns a page. She's freezing me out. 

"What's going on over there?" I ask. "At Kristy's? Is she okay?" 

Maria shrugs again. "I guess. David Michael Thomas is so upset about his brother. I didn't tell him what Sam did with Tiffany. I would _never_ tell him that." 

Well, that's a relief at least. As long as she doesn't tell anyone else either. I come into the room and perch awkwardly on the edge of Maria's dresser, my heels digging into the carpet. I watch Maria a little longer. "Come on," I finally say. "Get your coat. We're going out." 

Maria raises her eyes. She looks slightly interested, but masks her interest quickly. "Where are we going?" she wants to know. 

"Shopping. It's already December second. Don't you have to do some Christmas shopping? We'll go over to Bellair's, then grab lunch wherever you like. Won't that be fun?" 

Maria stares at me, frowning. Finally, she heaves a sigh and swings her legs off the bed. "All right, but I'm going under protest," she says. 

"That's fine," I reply and return to my bedroom for my coat and purse. Maria's waiting in the hallway when I come back out. She already has her jacket and gloves on. I notice she's dressing like Kristy again in jeans and a red turtleneck, her curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. It hurts, wondering if Maria wishes Kristy were her sister instead of me. I shouldn't be surprised. Maria would replace our entire family if she could. In fact, she's already searching for our replacements. 

It's eleven o' clock when we pull into the Bellair's parking lot. It's fairly crowded already. Maria doesn't walk with me. She walks two steps in front of me. We're not really together. I follow her wherever she leads. We check out the cosmetic counters and buy a mascara and eyeliner set for Tiffany. Then Maria insists on buying cologne for David Michael. Cologne for an eleven year old. I roll my eyes, but write the check anyway. Afterward, we ride the escalator to the Young Sophisticates section on the second floor. A lot of the clothes are rather picked over, but I find a striped sweater in about twenty different colors for Kristy. I think it's sort of ugly, which is why I know Kristy will adore it. Maria tries on a pile of clothes, even though we're supposed to be buying Christmas gifts, not new clothes for Maria. I buy her a pair of jeans though. 

In the accessories department, Maria picks out bangle bracelets for her friends at school, then it's up the escalator to the third floor. Maria and I browse through the books for a while and then look around at the toys, even though Maria's much too old for toys. On the way back to the escalator, we pass the day care center and I see Stacey McGill twirling around in a circle with a group of little boys and girls. Maria and I step on the escalator and ride down to the ground floor. As we step off, I realize that Maria and I managed an entire shopping trip with an absolute absence of conversation. 

It's depressing. 

"Where would you like to eat?" I ask Maria, as we toss our shopping bags into the backseat. It's nearly one and I'm actually not very hungry. 

"Burger Town," Maria replies. 

"Burger Town?" I repeat, wrinkling my nose. That's the second worse place to eat after Pizza Express, as far as I'm concerned. It's such a hang out for middle school kids. 

"Yes. Burger Town," Maria confirms. 

"It's your choice," I sigh and turn the key in the ignition. 

For a Saturday, Burger Town isn't very crowded. I suppose most kids won't show up until the evening. As soon as we walk through the doors I spot Meg Jardin at a corner table with that hideous boy, Price Irving. She's seated on his lap, feeding him French fries. It's repulsive. I haven't spoken to Meg in such a long time, haven't really given her too much thought. It's funny, after we were close friends for so many years. I never pictured her in Burger Town. She looks out of place in an ice blue turtleneck sweater and ruffled white skirt, her black hair perfectly in place. Price is dressed like a fool again in a red Hawaiian-print shirt underneath a navy blazer. Why are they still dating? I thought Mrs. Jardin put a stop to this after hearing about our disastrous triple date. 

"Shanny, can we sit down _please_?" Maria whines. 

"Yes, of course," I reply, tearing my gaze from Meg and Price. I steer Maria in the opposite direction. 

"Shannon!" a voice calls out. 

At first, my stomach sinks, thinking it's Meg. But I realize the voice comes from the direction Maria and I are headed. I turn my head slightly to the right and spy Mary Anne Spier seated at a large booth by the front window with Pete Black, her not-boyfriend, and a brunette I've never seen before. Mary Anne has an arm in the air, waving. 

I wish Maria had chosen somewhere else to eat. I'm embarrassed by what Mary Anne knows and has seen. But she's calling and waving to me, so I have no choice but to go over. 

"How's Tiffany?" she asks as soon as I reach her table. 

"She's living with her boyfriend now," Maria answers, promptly. 

Horrified, I manage a high, fake laugh. "She's not living with her boyfriend," I tell Mary Anne. "Did you hear about Sam?" I ask to change the subject. 

Mary Anne nods. "Yeah. I'm sorry for Kristy," she says. "Do you want to sit with us? There's plenty of room. Oh, this is Katie Shea," Mary Anne says, nodding toward the brunette. "And you know Pete, of course. This is Shannon Kilbourne and her little sister, Maria. Shannon and I were in the Baby-Sitters Club together in eighth grade." 

Katie snorts, earning her a sharp look from Mary Anne. 

"Hello," I say and everyone echoes the same. Pete's staring at me again. He has an arm around Mary Anne's shoulders. This is some odd relationship they have going on. 

"Sit down," Mary Anne says again. "Katie, slide over." 

"No, it's okay – " I begin. 

"Sure," Maria says, sliding into the booth beside Katie. 

I try not to appear cross. I wanted to have a talk with Maria. I hoped we would work a few things out. Instead, Maria prefers the company of complete strangers to mine. I smile, politely, and slide in next to Maria. Maria opens a menu. Mary Anne and her friends already have their lunches, which are half-eaten. When Maria announces she's ready, I wave over the waitress. Maria orders a Fiesta Burger, which sounds positively sickening, and I order onion rings and a diet soda. I have to save my appetite for dinner with Wes' parents. 

We make polite chit chat while Mary Anne and her friends finish their lunches. Katie mostly remains quiet. She doesn't act very friendly. Katie does make a couple snide remarks about the BSC though. I ignore her and continue telling Mary Anne about Maria's and my shopping trip. 

"I saw Stacey at the day care there," I say. 

Katie groans. "Please don't bring her up," she pleads. 

Mary Anne scowls at Katie, then turns to me. "Yes, I work at the Kid Center, too. Last night was my first shift of the season. I plan to put in a request to no longer share shifts with Stacey. She's impossible and I can't work with her. She always has to be in charge. We always have to do what _she_ wants to do and – " 

"Let's not talk about Stacey right now," Pete interrupts her. 

Mary Anne begins picking at the remainder of her bleu-cheeseburger. "Fine," she says, tightly. 

"So, did you visit Santa while at Bellair's?" Pete asks Maria. 

Mary Anne nudges him in the ribs. "Pete, she's twelve years old." 

"I already know what I'm getting for Christmas," Maria tells him, completely unfazed. "Mom gave me some catalogues a few weeks ago and I circled everything I wanted." 

I wish Maria would just not talk at all. Why must she say such things to strangers? She has no sense of family secrecy. Thankfully, our food arrives. Maria's burger is more nauseating than I imagined. Guacamole, chili, and cheese oozing out the sides. I refuse to look at her while she eats. Instead, I look over Pete's shoulder at Meg and Price. Meg's now holding his soda while he sips it through a straw. 

"What do you guys know about that Price Irving kid?" I ask. 

Mary Anne, Pete, and Katie all turn around to stare at Meg and Price. 

"I know he's a jerk," Mary Anne says when she turns around again. "And he lies." 

"Last summer, I saw Julie Stern punch him in the face. It was fantastic!" Katie cries. It's the first time she's seemed interested in any topic since I sat down. 

"Who hasn't punched Price Irving in the face?" Pete asks. "That's basically his number one pastime – getting beat up." Pete starts to laugh and elbows Mary Anne in the side. "Mary Anne, did you tell her what we did to him last week?" 

Mary Anne shakes her head. 

"Okay, this is awesome," Pete tells me. "So, Ross, Paul, and I lure him into the locker room with this girl's bra – " 

"You had some girl's bra?" I cut in. 

"Please don't ask," Katie says with an eye-roll. 

"Yeah, so we had this bra and we told him we'd sell it to him. So, we get him in the locker room and jump him and steal all his clothes. Then, we duct tape him to the wall upside down, wearing the bra." Pete laughs, loudly. 

"You duct taped him to a wall?" I ask, incredulously. 

"I was standing guard outside the locker room," Mary Anne says, popping a soggy French fry into her mouth. 

"Isn't that awesome?" Pete exclaims. 

"I think it's pretty cool," replies Maria. 

Katie rolls her eyes again. "He was duct taped to the wall for five minutes, Pete," she reminds him and turns to me. "One of the phys ed teachers found him. The whole thing was kind of lame." 

"It wasn't!" Pete protests. 

I sigh and bite into an onion ring. High school boys can be so immature. Pete and Katie argue awhile longer, then switch to comparing lists of all the people who have purposely physically injured Price Irving. The list ranges from a bunch of kids I've never heard of to Erica Blumberg to Mary Anne's stepsister, Dawn Schafer. As thrilling as the conversation is, I excuse myself to use the restroom. 

I'm standing at the sink washing my hands when the door opens and Meg walks in. We both freeze – me in my soap lathering and Meg in the doorway. After a moment's hesitation Meg thrusts her nose in the air and strolls over to the sink next to mine and leans forward, examining her face in the mirror. 

"Since when are you allowed to eat at Burger Town?" I can't help asking. 

Meg removes a tube of ruby red lipstick from her purse and leans back toward the mirror again. "My mother doesn't know I'm here," she answers, crabbily. 

"Why are you still dating that jerk?" I demand. "I thought your mom forbid you to see him because of his ill-breeding." 

"Price isn't a jerk. He's very sweet to me when other people aren't around," Meg retorts, capping her lipstick. "And he smoothed that whole unfortunate evening over with my mother. He was simply intimidated by those other boys. They're always bullying him. He wanted to impress them, that's all. Besides, that word he said? It was that girl's own fault." 

"Right," I reply, sarcastically, shaking off my wet hands, then pull out a paper towel. "Price is a real diamond in the rough." 

Meg nods. "Yes, he is," she agrees, making me wonder if she's totally missed my sarcasm or simply chosen to ignore it. Meg flips on the faucet and pushes up her sleeves, then sticks her hands underneath the water. 

"Dear Lord, Meg!" I cry, staring down at her hands. "What happened to your wrists?" 

Meg glances down at them. Deep red marks encircle both wrists. "That's nothing," Meg says, calmly. "My mother has me on this new diet regime. She's such a cow." 

I stare at her wrists a moment longer. Mrs. Jardin is a freak. 

Meg pulls up the neck of her sweater. "See you on Monday, Shan," she says and leaves the restroom. 

When I return to the table, Mary Anne's friend, Katie, has left. I've hardly touched my onion rings and wait patiently for Maria to finish her mess of a burger. Pete keeps staring at me, like I'm some specimen in a museum, then looks quickly away as soon as I catch his eye. It's unsettling. I don't like thinking of what he's thinking about me. I glance at my watch. I'd like to leave soon. 

Mary Anne glances at her watch, too. "My shift starts soon," she announces. "I have to work for, like, six hours with – oh, sorry, I won't say her name, Pete," Mary Anne says a bit grouchily. She returns to her normal voice to say to me, "Tonight, I have an overnight job at the Marshalls. You remember them, right?" 

"Sure. Nina and Eleanor. You still baby-sit?" 

Mary Anne shrugs. "Almost exclusively for the Marshalls. I sit for them a lot." Mary Anne drops her voice to a whisper. "Mr. and Mrs. Marshall are having marital difficulties. Nina told me. She's afraid they're going to get a divorce." 

"That's too bad." 

Mary Anne nods, then frowns. "I wish my dad and stepmom would get a divorce. Sharon's decided she doesn't like me anymore. Again. I'm not Dawn." Mary Anne's frown deepens a moment, then she nudges Pete. "I have to go to work. Drive me." 

Pete and Mary Anne slide out of the booth. Pete tosses some money onto the table. We say goodbye, then Mary Anne and Pete leave the restaurant, holding hands. As they walk away, Pete whispers something in Mary Anne's ear and she elbows him hard in the side. I suspect he made a comment about me. 

"Why can't you date someone like him?" Maria demands, crossly. 

"You don't understand," I tell her and glance at our check. I set the exact amount plus tip on the table. "Come on. Let's go." 

Maria doesn't say anything during the drive home. She digs through all the shopping bags, studying her purchases. She ignores me. I wonder how long this treatment will continue. But then, Maria did come out with me. Maybe that's something. 

Once we're home, I race up to my bedroom and begin peeling off my clothes. Since Mrs. Ellenburg wore a pantsuit when I met her, I decide it's all right for me to wear pants today. I select a pair of black slacks and Anna's sweater and black heels. I turn slowly in front of the mirror. I hope I don't look too casual. I switch to a nicer purse, then head downstairs. Maria's in the living room watching television with Astrid. 

"I'm going out," I inform her. 

Maria grunts in reply. 

"How do I look?" 

"You look fine," Maria says. She doesn't even glance at me. 

"Don't go over and bother the Thomas-Brewers, okay? They're having a family crisis. Maybe you could play with Linny and Hannie though. Just please, Maria, don't run your mouth off about our personal family business." 

"Okay, okay." 

"I'll call you later." 

"Okay." 

I stand by the couch another moment in case she has more to say. She keeps her focus on the television. So, I leave. Maybe I won't come home tonight. How would Maria like that? I bet she wouldn't care. She'd probably prefer me to stay away. 

I slip my favorite Great Blue Whales tape in the deck as I drive away from McLelland. It raises my spirits considerably. I remind myself that not everything in my life is currently awful. I have Wes. We've been very happy the last few days. And Kristy and I are reconciling. We'll be friends again soon. And Lindsey's still my friend, even if she might be insane. And I guess Mary Anne's kind of my friend, too. She's pretty strange though. 

I push aside all the bad things in my life. I don't consider them. I bury them deep. I've had a great morning and a mostly okay afternoon. And I'll enjoy my evening with the Ellenburgs. I won't let Mrs. Ellenburg intimidate me or twist me into saying anything I don't intend for her to know. Everything will run smooth and fine. 

I check my make-up in the rearview mirror, then hop out of the car. It's quite blustery out. I hurry up the walkway to Wes' front door. I knock lightly and wait. I don't wait long. Wes opens the door very quickly. 

"Hi, Wes!" I greet him. 

"Hello, Shannon," he replies, stiffly. 

I look behind him and on the end of the couch sits Elizabeth Brewer. 


	41. Chapter 41

"You're only seventeen!" 

I can't breathe. 

But I mask my panic well. 

"What?" I ask with a laugh. "What are you talking about? Who is this?" 

Elizabeth rises from the couch. She looks at me, pityingly. I can't stand it. 

"Shannon…" Elizabeth says, calmly but sternly, "this has gone on long enough." 

"Wes, I don't know who this is," I insist. 

"You're only seventeen!" Wes shrieks again. 

I start to protest again, but my eyes drift to the coffee table. Last year's Stoneybrook Day yearbook lies there. Elizabeth's thought of everything, hasn't she? I place my hand over my chest and take a long breath. I am still breathing, aren't I? I shift my eyes to Elizabeth, standing very straight before the couch, her eyes holding mine with their pitying gaze. Then I look to Wes, still holding the door open, face a mixture of horror and fury. 

"I'll be eighteen in March," I say, simply. 

"Oh, my God!" Wes screams. 

"Please calm down," Elizabeth says, gently. "Shannon, please come inside and shut the door." 

I obey, stepping over the threshold. Wes backs away from me. Horror bleeds all over his face. He doesn't want me near. I close the door. 

"I can explain," I tell him. 

"Oh, my God!" Wes shouts again. "You're only seventeen! How could you lie to me? Oh, my God!" 

"I never intended to lie to you," I yell back. "You're the one who assumed I was in college!" 

"It's _my_ fault?" Wes roars. 

"No! Yes! Of course not! It's…I…It shouldn't matter, Wes! It's only three years! I am still the same person! Everything else was the truth!" 

"You expect me to believe _that_?" 

"Yes! I expect you to believe it because you love me!" 

"I don't even _know_ you!" Wes shouts. He covers his face with his hands. "Oh, my God! This could ruin me! You could destroy my life! Oh, my God, I've been having sex with a high school student!" 

"It was completely consensual!" I reply and spin around to face Elizabeth. I point a finger at her. "It was completely consensual!" 

"It was. It was," Wes chimes in, sounding panicked. "I had no idea. I never thought…I knew she was naïve and sometimes immature, but I didn't…I didn't…" 

"I believe you," Elizabeth says, soothingly. 

I step toward Wes and he takes a step back. "Wes!" I cry, taking another step. I reach out and grab his hands, lacing my fingers through his. I grip tightly. "Wes! It's all right! I'm sorry I lied, but that doesn't change anything between us. My parents don't care. It's all right. We're in love. I love you, Wes! I love you so much! I need you!" 

Wes jerks his hands away. "If you loved me, you wouldn't have lied to me," he retorts, accusingly. "You wouldn't have let me…Oh, my God! You've been seventeen this whole time!" Wes clutches his head, remembering all the things I've done to him and all the things he's done to me. "Oh, my God. New York…_this morning_. You can't possibly love me! You could ruin my life! My career!" 

"It was consensual! You didn't know!" 

"You think anyone will care about that? That they'll believe that? Oh, my God. The parents of my students…the school board…the town...they'll crucify me. You're in high school! That's all anyone will care about. I've been sleeping with a high school student! I'll be run out of the school! I'll always be that perverted math teacher! Did you ever think of that, Shannon? Did you think of anyone but yourself?" 

No. I did not. Not really. "I love you," I tell him. "And that's all that should matter." 

"That isn't enough!" Wes looks like he might cry. "What am I supposed to tell my parents? This will kill my mother! Especially if people find out! You could ruin my entire family, Shannon!" 

Elizabeth steps between us and holds her arms out, separating Wes and I. "Okay, that's enough," she says. I don't understand how she's remained so calm. I feel like I am drowning. Wes looks like his head might explode. But Elizabeth simply steps between us and announces she's now in charge. "That's enough," she repeats. "You both need to calm down. Wesley, I realize this has been a shock, but you need to quit yelling. And Shannon, please don't say anything more. It's time for us to leave. This is over." 

Who does Elizabeth Brewer think she is? She's not my mother. She's not a relative. She's a _neighbor_. "I'm not going anywhere," I inform her, peevishly. "I'm staying with Wes and we're working things out." 

Elizabeth looks at me a moment, then turns to Wes. "Wesley, do you want Shannon to stay?" 

"No." 

Elizabeth turns back to me. "It's over, Shannon," she says. 

"It isn't!" 

Elizabeth returns her attention to Wes. "I am very sorry that this happened to you," she tells him. "I wish it had not carried on this long. As soon as my daughter told me your name – " 

"Kristy told you?" I screech. That traitor! That rat! She said she wanted to be my friend again! 

"Yes and she should have told me a week ago. Now, Shannon, let's go." Elizabeth takes my elbow and pulls me toward the door. 

I allow myself to be lead away. I turn my head and look back at Wes. He stares at me, stonily. His left eye twitches. He doesn't say anything else to me. He lets me go. 

My legs become jelly on the walkway and collapse beneath me. I can't walk. I can't breathe. I can't think. I feel hollowed out and incomplete. There's nothing now. 

Elizabeth slips an arm around my waist and holds me up. "Come on, Shannon," she says, softly, in my ear. "I'll drive you home." She half-carries me out to the parking lot. Her silver-gray BMW roadster sits three spaces from my own car. How did I miss it? I am so blind. 

Elizabeth practically shoves me into the passenger seat, then latches my belt for me. When she shuts the door, I lay my head against the window and close my eyes. I listen to Elizabeth start the car. Wes doesn't want me. How can he stop loving me in a single instant? He didn't even consider it. He didn't even hear my words. I lied to him. I know I did. But that doesn't mean I don't love him. He lied to me, too. He never loved me. 

"Something had to be done," Elizabeth says, matter-of-factly, as we leave Wes' apartment complex. 

Out the window, I watch the apartment grow smaller and smaller until it disappears. The place I used to be happy, the place where Wes loved me disappears. 

This is all Kristy and Elizabeth's fault. They've destroyed me. They've taken away the one perfect thing in my life. And I will hurt them back. 

"You're so self-righteous," I tell Elizabeth. I can't even muster any anger into my voice. 

"Perhaps." 

"You think you're so smart." 

"Yes. I do." 

She's as obnoxious as Kristy. They both deserve what they get. 

"I know why Sam left." 

"Oh, really?" Elizabeth replies, airily. She thinks she knows what I will say. That I'll blame her. She's ready for that. 

"He left," I say, "because I caught him screwing my little sister for two hundred dollars." 

Elizabeth slams on the brakes, screeching to a halt in the middle of Forest Drive. We're both thrown forward, then the seatbelts snap us back. I smack my head hard against the headrest. 

Elizabeth's hands fly to her mouth. "Oh, God," she whispers. 

"He still owes her a hundred. He didn't get to finish. He thinks the police are after him. You might want to ask your daughter-in-law about who put that idea in his head." 

"Oh, God," Elizabeth whispers again. 

"He pretended Tiffany was Stacey McGill. Two hundred dollars to deflower a fake Stacey McGill." 

"Oh, God." 

"That's a pretty long fall off your high horse, isn't it?" 

A truck stops behind us and blasts its horn. Elizabeth takes her foot off the brake and continues down the street. Her face remains stricken. She doesn't say another word. I lay my head against the window again and watch the houses pass. I hope she tells Kristy. If she doesn't, I will. 

Elizabeth pulls into my driveway. The garage door is up, but there are no cars inside. Elizabeth turns off the engine and unlatches her seatbelt. Then she doesn't make another move. I would run away. I wish to run away. But I know I can't support myself. I can't make that walk from the car to the front door. 

Elizabeth bursts into tears. 

Good. 

"When did you become such a spiteful little witch?" she demands through her tears. 

"I guess it was inevitable," I reply. 

Elizabeth sobs cease. Her door opens then closes. I hear her walk around the car and then she appears at my window. She jerks the car door open and I slump over sideways. 

"Get out of the car, please," she requests, flatly. "You can do it yourself." 

Slowly, I unlatch the belt and climb out of the car. My legs wobble unsteadily beneath me. I'm shaking. I'm no longer falling apart. I've hit bottom and shattered. 

Elizabeth comes inside with me. When we walk into the foyer, we see Maria in the living room, seated on the carpet, surrounded by rolls of wrapping paper and bags of bows. Jingle Bells blares from the stereo. Dear Lord. Is it really almost Christmas? 

"Hi, Elizabeth!" Maria exclaims, glancing up. She springs to her feet and races into the foyer. "What's wrong with Shanny?" she asks. 

"Elizabeth just destroyed my life, that's what happened," I snap and then discover energy I thought completely sapped. I rush up the stairs on my shaky legs. 

In my bedroom, I check the answering machine. Wes may have changed his mind. He thought it over and realized I've proven how much I love him and that, really, he loves me, too. But there are no messages. He needs more time. I sink down on the bed and stare across the room out the window. Outside all I see is gray. 

The bedroom door swings open and Elizabeth barrels right in, holding a glass of water. She hands it to me, then holds out her other hand. "Here, take these. I found them in your parents' medicine cabinet." She drops two tiny white pills into my open palm. 

I swallow the pills without question. Maybe they'll kill me. 

"Where are your parents?" Elizabeth asks. 

I shrug. 

Elizabeth curses under her breath. 

"Why are you still here?" I ask, crabbily. Hasn't she done enough already? 

"Because there needs to be an adult here once in awhile," Elizabeth replies. She begins back toward the door. "Take a nap. You look awful." Then she's gone. 

"Tell Kristy I'm never speaking to her again!" I call after her. I don't think Elizabeth hears. 

When I hear Elizabeth thunder down the stairs, I stand and cross the room to my desk. I pick up the phone and tap out Wes' number. I reach a busy signal. My stomach tightens. I hope Wes isn't on the phone crying to his mother. That's a little hasty. 

I'm already crying when I fall face first onto my pillow. I clutch it tightly, sobbing hard. I can't help it. I don't have the strength to hold back any longer. I cry and cry and eventually drift into a shallow sleep. 

When I wake again, Maria's sitting in a chair by the window, balancing a dinner tray on her knees. 

"Elizabeth said your boyfriend found out you're a liar," Maria informs me. 

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask. It feels like days. 

"About fifteen minutes," Maria answers. 

Oh. 

Maria stands and carries the tray over to the bed. "Elizabeth said to make you something when you woke up," she says and sets the tray on the night table. There's a glass of apple juice and a cheese sandwich with no crusts. 

I stare at the tray, feeling queasy. I shake my head. "I'm going to throw up," I announce. But I don't. I stay in bed and the feeling lingers, but doesn't worsen. "Elizabeth isn't still here, is she?" Hopefully, she's out tearing apart some other person's life. 

"No. She went to find Tiffany. Then she said she's going to find Mom and Dad and pull their heads out of their asses so they take control of this disaster of a house," Maria says. 

I roll my eyes. Elizabeth Brewer needs to mind her own damn business. Wes and I were perfectly happy before she barged in and annihilated our relationship. Doesn't she have her own screwed up kids to worry about? She needs to take control of Kristy and Kristy's big mouth. 

"I have something for you," Maria tells me. She removes a folded piece of paper from her pocket and holds it out to me. 

"What is it?" I ask, suspiciously. 

"A note." 

"From who?" 

Maria hesitates. "From Kristy. She brought it over while you were gone." 

"Rip it up and flush it down the toilet." 

"I'm supposed to read it to you then," Maria says, unfolding the note. She clears her throat and reads, "I'm sorry. I did it because I'm your friend." 

I snort. Kristy has some bizarre definition of a friend. 

"Get the phone, Maria," I order her. 

"You want me to call Kristy?" she asks, hopefully. "She said she'd come over if you wanted her to." 

"No, I don't want you to call Kristy! Pick up the phone and dial this number: KL5-3672." 

Maria frowns at me, like she knows whose number it is. But she obeys and taps out the number. She listens a moment. "It's busy," she tells me. 

I bite my lip. I won't allow Maria to see me cry. "He's tattling to his mother," I say. 

"Or he took the phone off the hook." 

Or that. 

I close my eyes and fight back the tears. He's furious. He hates me. But that could still change. He'll recover from the shock. I just need to give him a little space, a little time. 

"Do you want me to call someone?" Maria offers. "Maybe Kristy _should_ come over. Or Abby." 

"No," I whisper, eyes still shut. "I don't want anyone," I say in a wavering voice. I only want Wes. There's no one else for me anyway. Kristy, Abby, Anna, Lindsey, Greer, Meg – they're all gone. My life lies in shambles and there's no one left to hold me up. Maybe that's my own fault in some ways. 

"I'll stay with you, Shanny," Maria says, returning to the chair by the window. She picks up a book off the windowsill and opens it. 

I roll onto my other side, so I face away from Maria. I manage to cry silently, but suspect Maria knows anyway. 


	42. Chapter 42

"Morning, Starshine." 

I open my eyes to see Sally White's face looming over mine. 

I scream. Sally jumps back, knocks into the night table and curses. Someone laughs. I rub my eyes and push up on my elbows, squinting at the sunlight pouring into the room. Greer Carson's seated at the end of the bed, legs crossed, leaning back on her own elbows. She's wearing her stupid beret. What the hell are Greer and Sally, the two people I loathe most in this world – after Kristy and Elizabeth – doing in my bedroom? 

"What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?" I demand. 

"That's a lovely greeting, Starshine," Sally replies. 

"But pretty much the greeting we expected," Greer adds. 

I rub my eyes again. The last thing I need are these two clowns annoying me. What day is it? I look at the alarm clock on the night table. It's after twelve. I look down at myself. I'm still dressed in Anna's Shetland sweater and my black slacks, but someone's removed my shoes. Have I been asleep all this time? 

"Why are you here?" I ask, irritated. 

Sally flops into the chair by the window and rocks back. "Because we're the only two people in Stoneybrook who don't hate you right now," she answers in her bored voice. 

Greer shoots Sally a dirty look. "You don't have to be so blunt," she tells her, then turns her head toward me. "Kristy sent me over to check on you," she explains. 

"Kristy sent _you_?" 

"Well, no. I got sent by accident," Greer replies. "Apparently, no one in the Thomas-Brewer family feels they should come over right now. Kristy's afraid you may beat her to a pulp or something. But Kristy wanted someone to check on you, so she called Abby. Abby, however, said you're a self-centered hypocrite and refused to come. And Lindsey's in her closet, and Meg Jardin is, of course, a bigot. So then, Kristy called Amanda and Al, but neither was home. So, she called Karl to see if he'd come check on you and I happened to be at Karl's. We were practicing our skit for the Christmas pageant, which is fabulous, by the way. Anyway, I volunteered to come over." 

My mouth drops open. Kristy Thomas is such a loud mouth! "Kristy told you what happened?" I shriek, horrified. 

"No. She just said you were having a problem and wanted me to make sure you weren't on the brink of swallowing a medicine cabinet or jumping out a window. She didn't tell me anything," Greer says. She pauses a moment, her tongue poking out between her lips, thinking. She continues, "Now _Maria_ did tell me. Pretty much as soon as I walked through the front door. Or at least she told me some weird version of what's been going on. Kristy refused to confirm or deny, so I called Sally, who did confirm and deny." 

I glare at Sally. "Thanks a lot," I spit out. 

"Hey, you _should_ thank me. Greer seemed to think you were having sex with Mrs. Jamison, the calculus teacher. I quashed that rumor immediately, don't worry." Sally gives me a thumbs-up. 

Greer rolls her eyes. "Did I mention that Maria was _really_ fuzzy on the details. I filled in the blanks myself and didn't do such a hot job of it, apparently. I was so relieved!" Greer cries and laughs, but is silenced by a look from Sally. "Naturally, I am appalled, too. I won't even mention what a judgmental hypocrite you are. Or how, although I may be a slut, I own my sluttiness. I don't lie to poor schlubs about my age and make them think we're in a real relationship. I mean, I won't mention any of that, but it's something you may wish to contemplate." Greer takes a breath, the drops her jaw in this exaggerated way. "But omi_gawsh_, Shannon! _Wesley Ellenburg_?" Greer fans herself with her hand and sighs. "He is _adorable_. I've met him lots of times. His mother comes into Mom's antique store all the time." 

"Yeah, congratulations on that conquest," Sally says, dryly. "As long as you weren't lying to an _ugly_ guy." Sally stands and crosses the room. "Where's that little girl?" she asks and goes out into the hallway. She shouts, "Hey, little girl! Your sister's awake!" 

This must be some sort of nightmare. I slide off the bed. "I'm going to the bathroom," I tell Greer and leave the room. 

I lock the bathroom door and slump against it. I close my eyes and refuse to cry. How did my life come to this? How did I reach a point where Greer Carson and Sally White, of all the despicable people in Stoneybrook, are the only ones willing to speak to me? I peel off my sweater and toss it on the hamper. I stare at my reflection. I am hideous. My hair's a tangled mess and my eyes are bright red. Eye make-up is smudged all around my eyes. I resemble a crazed raccoon. I turn on the shower and begin attempting to straighten out my disastrous hair day. When the water warms, I step beneath the spray. I scrub hard at my hair and at my body, scrub until my skin is red and raw. It doesn't make me feel better. 

After brushing my teeth, I return to my bedroom wrapped in a towel. To my displeasure, Greer and Sally are still lounging around my room. Maria's sitting on the bed, another tray on her lap. 

"I'm not hungry," I grumble, passing her. I open the closet and pull out a pair of tan slacks and a white floral-print blouse. Then I retrieve clean panties and a bra from the dresser. I change in front of everyone, not even embarrassed. They know all my secrets anyway, why hide anything at all? 

"Mom came home," Maria informs me. "She's not here now. She had to go to the office." 

I button my blouse, slowly. I have no energy. I want to go back to sleep. "Did you tell her what happened?" I ask. 

"No. She told me not to pester her." 

"Where's Tiffany?" 

"At work. She's still mad at you." 

I figured. Who isn't mad at me these days? 

Greer rolls over on the bed, so that she's lying on her stomach. She rests her chin in her right palm. "Okay, Maria, you need to leave now," she says, bluntly. "We need to talk to your sister about things not for the ears of a twelve year old." 

Maria scowls at Greer. "You think anything would shock me now?" she replies, then slides the tray onto the night table and storms out. 

As soon as the door shuts, I turn to Greer. "Has Wes called?" I ask. I mask the hope in my voice well. 

"Maria said she unplugged the phone last night." 

Unplugged the phone! What if Wes has called all this time? I hurry over to the desk and plug the phone jack back in. My fingers shake as I dial. I bite my lip, hard. The phone rings. 

"This is sad," Sally comments. 

The phone rings and rings. Wes doesn't answer. The answering machine doesn't pick up. Tears sting my eyes. I close them tight and hang up the phone. 

"He'll come around," I assure them and cross the room. I sit down on the bed and fold my hands in my lap. I stare down at them. Water drips off the ends of my hair and falls onto my pant legs. Falls like tears. 

"I don't think he'll come around," Greer says, gently. 

I continue to stare at my hands. 

"What happened?" Greer asks. 

"Elizabeth Brewer wrecked my life," I say, bitterly. "She barged in and told Wes the truth. Or her version of it. He wouldn't even listen to me. I told him that it shouldn't matter if he really loved me. I told him that I love him, but he didn't believe me. He completely freaked out. He said that I could ruin his life, that if people knew he was sleeping with a high school student, they would assume the worst. He'd be labeled a pervert and his teaching career destroyed. He made it sound like all we were doing was having sex. We had a real relationship. We were supposed to be in love." 

Greer and Sally don't reply right away. Greer watches me with interest. She watches me like I'm something curious she's never seen before. Sally tips backward in her chair and stares at me, appearing no less bored than usual. 

"Don't you think he has a point?" Sally finally asks. 

"Excuse me?" 

"You _could_ ruin his life. People _would_ say he's a pervert. He's twenty-six years old and you're still in high school. No one will care that you're allegedly in love. They'll think he's a predator out there hunting for lonely, love-starved high school girls, so he can lure them into his bed and break their cherries. Everyone's going to wonder whose little girl he'll defile next. His career _will_ be over. Even if the school doesn't fire him, the parents in this town will run him off. I may have only lived in Stoneybrook for two months, but even I know that this is a town full of Kats. Conservative, stuffy people who don't like the thought of little girls lifting their skirts and spreading their legs for the first guy who claims to love them." 

"You know, I didn't ask for your opinion," I snap. 

"That's because you don't want any opinion that doesn't tell you exactly what you want to hear. Who have you been listening to all this time? _Lindsey Dupree_. Lindsey, who eats her own hair and becomes hysterical at the possibility that some chick in a Corvette is going to make her sit beside a trash can. _That's_ who you take advice from? You don't listen to me, you don't listen to Kat, you don't listen to Kat's mom. Who else has told you that you're a selfish idiot? I get the feeling Abigross has. You need to listen. The only person who's wrecked your life is you. You've brought this on yourself." 

"You don't understand!" 

"That's all you ever say," Sally replies, tipping back in the chair again. "You're so tragic. You're so misunderstood. Those aren't justifications." 

I glower at her, nostrils flaring, then look to Greer. "Greer?" I say, flatly. 

Greer pulls herself up and folds her legs Indian-style. She looks from me to Sally. She frowns at us both, appearing uncomfortable. "I agree with Sally," she finally says. "Though she may have been unnecessarily harsh. But honestly, Shannon, you've been pretty dumb. Maybe you never intended for things to go so far and I know you never intended to hurt this guy, but you did. Sally's right, you really don't have anyone else to blame. I know Kristy's annoying and her mom can be too, but I seriously, seriously doubt they sit up at night plotting ways to demolish your life." Greer takes a breath and gazes at me, sadly. "We all make mistakes. We do stupid things because of boys and sex and love. I mean, I had to go to the Stoneybrook Health Clinic and have an STD test because of that genital warts outbreak at Stoneybrook High. That's my own fault. That's what I get for wanting to know what it's like to screw a guy with a gimp leg and a cane. Curiosity's a bitch, ladies." 

"Did he use the cane while having sex?" Sally wants to know. 

"Who cares?" I snap at her. "Neither of you know what you're talking about. You, Greer," I point at her, "have only had empty, meaningless sex. You make conquests, you don't fall in love. And you," I point at Sally, "are obnoxious and don't know the first thing about friendship or relationships or love. So, both of you, shut up and stop judging me!" 

"Who says I've never been in love?" Sally asks. 

"We aren't judging you!" Greer protests. 

"We're telling you what you need to hear," Sally says. 

"Shut up!" I snap again. 

I spring off the bed and dash to my closet, throwing open the door. I pull out a tan coat and slip my arms into the sleeves. My hair is still a damp mess, but I don't care. I'm not staying in this room a moment longer, not with the judgment twins spewing self-righteousness all over me. 

"Where are you going?" Greer asks. 

"I'm going to Wes'," I answer and begin toward the door. He's had time to think. We're going to talk this out. You don't just stop loving someone. He still loves me. He may be upset, but his feelings for me don't simply disintegrate because Elizabeth Brewer shows up with Kristy's yearbook and a pack of misconstrued truth. 

"You're one of those stupid smart people, aren't you?" Sally asks. 

Greer sighs and swings her legs off the bed. "Fine. I'll drive you," she offers. She grabs her coat and purse off the desk chair and follows me out of the room. 

Unfortunately, Sally comes, too. 

"Isn't it enough," Sally says as we go down the stairs, "that you've ripped his heart out? Now you want to eat it, too?" 

Greer shushes her. If I didn't detest Greer Carson, I might be almost grateful. 

Maria and Dad are in the living room, sprawled out on the couch, watching a movie. I stop in the doorway with Greer and Sally crowding beside me. I glance at the television. It's some Kathleen Turner movie. Of course. 

Dad looks over at me. "Hey!" he says with a wave. "Going out, that's good. Elizabeth and Watson Brewer cornered me this morning when I was heading out to my golf game." Dad rolls his eyes and makes a gesture like a moving mouth with his hand. "Yak yak yak. I guess you broke up with your boyfriend. Too bad. But hey, you're in high school. There's plenty of fish in the sea. You're young. You need to see who else is out there. Hey, my senior year in high school, you know when I was dating that frigid bitch, I said to myself, 'Ted, you should be playing the field'. But hey, I'm a realist and that bitch got me elected Homecoming King and I knew if I rode out the rest of the school year, I could count on her sliding me in for Prom King, too. It was quite the moral dilemma – " 

"Do you think a twenty-six year old math teacher could get Shannon elected Prom Queen?" Sally interrupts Dad. 

Dad looks confused. "Well, probably not." 

"Then how is this story helpful?" 

"It isn't," I reply. "Come on, let's go." 

"Have fun!" Dad calls after us. 

Greer knows not to comment on my parents, but Sally doesn't have that knowledge or tact. "Is that your real father?" she asks. 

"Yes." 

"He's appalling." 

"So are you," I snap. 

"We have to take your car," Greer says, leading us through the laundry room into the garage. "The three of us won't fit in my Miata. Give me your keys. You aren't driving." 

I'm surprised to see my car sitting in its usual spot in the garage. I left it at Wes'. For a fraction of a second, I'm confused. Then it occurs to me that Maria wouldn't hesitate to hand over my car keys if a Thomas-Brewer came asking for them. Scowling, I dig my keys out of my purse and hand them to Greer. Then I climb into the passenger seat. 

Greer backs out of the driveway so quickly she almost runs over Noodle the Poodle. Maybe she's the one who taught Sally how to drive. We roar past Abby and Kristy's houses. I don't look. Instead, I pull out my cosmetics bag and attempt to apply my make-up as steadily as possible. I want to look nice for Wes. I run my hairbrush awkwardly through my damp hair. It doesn't look too fantastic. Perhaps that will work in my favor. Wes will see me and glimpse how I feel in the inside. Worn out and broken up. 

"Take Forest Drive to Main Street," I instruct Greer. "Then go down Birch Street." 

Sally leans forward. "Let's go to Good-Time Charley's instead," she suggests. "You can eat your weight in chocolate." 

"No." 

Sally sighs and leans back. 

Greer pulls through the entrance of the Birch Street apartments and squeals to a halt in an empty handicap spot. I search the parking lot with my eyes. Wes' Volvo isn't under its covered spot. My heart sinks. Then it rises. Maybe he _hid_ it. Or maybe he'll be back any minute. 

I unlatch my seatbelt and turn to Greer. "Stay here. I'm going alone." 

Greer glances back at Sally, unsure. 

Sally waves, dismissively. "Let her go." 

Greer frowns at me, then sighs. "If you're not back in ten minutes, we're coming after you," she tells me. "What's his apartment number?" 

Sally leans forward again. "Oh, we'll just follow the sounds of the man screaming that his life has ended," she suggests. 

"It's apartment 137," I say, opening the door. I hop out of the car and begin up the walkway. I wind around the bushes until I curve up the path to Wes' building. I take a deep breath and march confidently to his door. I knock lightly, then reconsider and knock again, this time much more forcefully. I wait. And I wait. I attempt to look through the kitchen window, face pressed against the windowpane. The blinds are closed, but I know I detect someone moving in there. 

I knock again. 

Footsteps. 

The door creaks open and a blonde head pokes out. 

That Lauren girl. 

She laughs. "I knew it was you!" she screeches in my face. 

My stomach twists. "What are you doing in Wes' apartment?" I demand, hotly. 

"Certainly not what you were!" she squeals, gleefully. "I'm feeding the cat." 

"You're…you're feeding the cat?" I repeat. "Why?" 

"Mr. Ellenburg left and I'm not allowed to tell anyone where he went. And by anyone that means you. He showed me your picture and said not to let you in here. Of course, I'd already seen that picture and already knew who you were. Obviously. Why did you give him a picture with Anna Stevenson in it? That's the only reason I knew who you were. I saw Anna and thought, 'Oh, my gosh, that's the girl with the fish bowl from that party!'" 

"You…what?" 

"Saw the picture. The last time I fed the cat. I guess you were having a rendezvous in New York. You have no idea how difficult it was to contain myself! I kept your secret for, like, two weeks! But I had to say _something_ to someone after I caught you half-naked on the porch!" 

"You're the girl who fed the cat?" I ask and it clicks. Of course. Wes said his demonic cat shredded the girl's headband and then he said the photos on his mirror were misarranged. She'd been going through his stuff! 

"I'm really disappointed that I missed yesterday's blow up," Lauren says. She actually sounds apologetic. "You broke Mr. Ellenburg's heart. His eyes were all bloodshot." 

I glare at her. "Where is Wes?" I ask. 

"I can't tell you." 

"He's at his parents' house, isn't he?" I can't believe it. He ran home to his parents! He's _hiding_ from me. How childish. 

"I can't tell you," Lauren repeats. 

"I can just drive out there myself," I inform her, testily. Except I don't remember how to get to their house. Greenvale isn't very big. I could find it. I bet Greer knows where the Ellenburgs live. "You have the phone number, don't you?" 

"I'm not giving you the phone number!" Lauren cries. "Now, you need to leave. If you don't, I'm going to scream for Mr. Prezzioso." 

"Fine!" I yell. 

Lauren slams the door and locks it. 

Well, she can't stay in there forever. She doesn't _live_ there. She has to come out and go home sometime. I'll simply sit on the stairs and wait her out. Then I'll jump her and steal her key. Yes. That's what I'll do. 

The lock turns again and Lauren opens the door. Her head reappears. "Oh…" she says in this odd voice, "and please tell Kristy Thomas that I haven't been gossiping about you to anyone. Well, other than to the people I had already gossiped to about you. So, she doesn't need to punch my lights out and she certainly doesn't need to tell anyone about that thing I did. Or about that other thing I did. And she definitely doesn't need to tell Emily Bernstein about what I _accidentally_ did to her cat. I mean, the cat shouldn't have been playing in…its own front yard…um, pass that on. Thanks." 

What? 

Lauren starts to close the door again, but I spring forward and grab it. I push inward. Lauren pushes back. I wedge my left knee between the door and the frame. Lauren stomps on my foot. 

"Mr. Ellenburg won't pay me if I let you in," she growls. 

"I don't care!" 

"I'm going to scream!" 

"Go ahead!" 

Lauren opens her mouth. "Mr. Prezzioso!" she bellows at the top of her lungs. 

I release my grip on the door and leap backward. I turn and run, racing down the walkway. Greer and Sally have just jumped out of the car and are headed toward me. 

"Was that you screaming?" Greer shouts. 

"No, no," I reply, briskly. "Back in the car, back in the car." 

"What the hell happened?" Greer asks as she puts the car in reverse. 

"He wasn't there," I answer a bit breathlessly. "I got in a fight with the girl feeding his cat." 

"You really need to re-evaluate your life, Starshine," Sally says from the backseat. 

I ignore her. "He left!" I tell Greer. "He left! He's hiding out at his parents' house. I think he's afraid to see me. He knows I can convince him to give me another chance. No, don't turn onto Main Street. We're going to Greenvale. Go back the other way." I attempt to grab the steering wheel but Greer bats my hands away. "Come on, Greer! You've been to the Ellenburgs', haven't you? You need to take me there!" 

"You need to get a freaking grip on yourself," Sally says. 

Greer turns onto Essex. "I am not taking you to Greenvale," she says, firmly. "This is insane. He's hiding from you because he doesn't want to _see_ you. Now, Sally and I already decided, we're taking you to Thelma's Café and you're going to eat something. Then we're taking you home." 

"That isn't what I want." 

"No, but it's what you need." 

At Thelma's Café, I'm halfway through a grilled cheese sandwich when I start to cry. Greer and Sally take me home. 


	43. Chapter 43

Monday morning is the first I've seen Tiffany since Friday. I went to bed early last night while Tiffany was still out. She's in the bathroom when I walk in, leaning against the counter, brushing her teeth, still in her pajamas. 

"You look like hell," she informs me. 

"Thanks," I mumble. I'm already in my uniform and roll up the sleeves of my blouse. I splash cold water on my face, then press a clean washcloth to my skin. I look in the mirror. I do look like hell. "I suppose you know what's happened," I say. 

"Yeah. Big surprise," Tiffany replies. She spits into the sink and runs her toothbrush beneath the faucet. "Thanks a lot for narcing on me to Elizabeth." 

"Did she get all self-righteous and yell and lecture you, too?" I ask. I'm almost sympathetic. 

"No. But she did cry," Tiffany says, then tosses her toothbrush into the holder and strolls out of the bathroom. 

We don't speak again. 

When we reach SDS, Maria walks me to the high school building. I'm holding my messenger bag and the lunch Maria packed for me last night. 

"You should consider today a new beginning," Maria tells me, then trots off toward the middle school building, calling out to her friend, Lily. 

Maria needs to stop watching talk shows. 

Greer swoops down on me the moment I push through the doors. I suspect she's been hovering there, waiting. She smiles widely and insists that I look _much_ better than yesterday. We both know she's lying. Greer and I walk the halls together, me with my head bent low, clutching tight to my messenger bag and Greer giddily calling out and waving to friends. There's still a wedge separating Greer and I. I suspect it will exist forever now. 

Lindsey isn't in first period. 

I didn't do my homework this weekend. I luck out in European history because the teacher is absent. In World literature, I luck out again because Sally White rolls her eyes and slides her paper over to my desk. I fill out the entire chart in less than five minutes. It's barely legible. At the end of the period, after I've finished guessing every answer on the pop quiz, Sally allows me to copy her Italian homework as well. Usually, I dislike pity, but right now I'll take whatever anyone is handing out. Even if it comes from Sally White. 

In microbiology, Sally and I sit down at our table in the back. It's funny because a couple months ago it was Kristy's and my table. Now Kristy sits in the front with other kids. But not today. Today, she plunks herself down at the empty table in front of mine. I'm busy scanning the chapter I didn't read over the weekend and ignore her. 

Kristy turns sideways in her chair and watches me ignore her. "Will you just say something to me?" she asks. "_Anything_?" 

I continue ignoring her. 

"Look, Shannon. I'm sorry I had to do it. You wouldn't listen though. And your parents wouldn't listen either. There was nothing else I could do. I _am_ sorry. I'm sorry you're hurt and that that guy's hurt, too," Kristy says. She waits for me to respond, but I don't. "Are you doing all right?" 

I turn a page in my textbook. "Sally," I say, casually. "Do you hear something? Like an annoying insect buzzing around our heads?" 

"Yes, I hear something," Sally replies. "I hear Kat asking you if you're all right." 

I purse my lips and uncap a highlighter. I drag it across a definition. "Sally, would you please tell Kristin Amanda Thomas that I will never ever speak to her again? And that she is not my friend because she is smug, self-righteous and thoroughly insufferable. _And_ she and her reprehensible mother have stolen from me the only person who loves me." 

"Kat, Starshine says – " 

"You know, this isn't the fourth grade," Kristy snaps. "And I'm not playing telephone with the two of you." Kristy whirls around and hunches over her textbook. In less than a minute, she's turned around again, looking furious, "And Shannon Kilbourne," she hisses, "if you think some man you barely know is the only person in this world who loves you, then you are pathetic." She spins back around and slumps over her work again. 

As usual, Kristy has no idea what she's talking about. She's such a child. 

Sally and I begin our worksheet, following Dr. Clark's instructions on the board. Sally does most of the work since I haven't read the chapter and quite frankly, I don't much care for microbiology anymore. Kristy works alone. 

While copying down what Sally dictates, a thought occurs to me. I hadn't considered it before. "Sally," I say, setting down my pen, "will you ask Kristin why she still tattled on me after I told her I'd broken up with Wes?" 

"Kat – " 

"You don't have to repeat what she said," Kristy grumbles. "I can hear perfectly fine. And Sally, you may tell Shannon Kilbourne that in the future, she ought to be more careful about who parks their Volvo in her driveway for two hours." 

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Sally asks. 

I smack Sally in the head with my notebook. Dr. Clark yells at me, but that doesn't make it any less satisfying. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

During our lunch period, Greer and Sally meet me at the pay phone like I ordered them to. The pay phone is outside the administration building in one of the connecting glass hallways. I just saw Sally in Italian, but haven't seen Greer since this morning. Neither looks thrilled when I show up. I suspect they know what's coming. 

"We're calling Stoneybrook Middle School," I inform them. 

Greer and Sally exchange a look. 

Greer sighs. "Why?" 

Why? Isn't it obvious? "Wes is on his lunch hour. He'll be free to talk. Just a short conversation. I only need him to listen for a couple minutes. We'll arrange to meet somewhere after school and have a longer talk then," I explain. 

Greer's digging through her lunch bag and speaks without looking up, "Shannon, he doesn't want to speak to you," she says. 

"Yes, he does," I insist. "He's just afraid." I pick up the phone and hold it out to Sally. "Here. You call the office and ask for Wesley Ellenburg. Say you're his mother." 

Sally stares at me, blankly. "Why do I have to make the call?" she asks. 

"Because you sound the most like his mother," I answer, matter-of-factly. 

"The secretary doesn't know what his mother sounds like." 

"Will you take the phone?" I snap. 

Greer grabs the phone from me. "I'll make the call," she says. "I've met Mrs. Ellenburg plenty of times. I can do her voice." 

"It doesn't matter what you sound like!" Sally protests. 

I glare at her and open the phone book. I flip through quickly, searching for the listing for Stoneybrook Middle School. When I find it, I read the number aloud to Greer. She dials. 

"You are such an enabler," Sally tells her. 

Greer rolls her eyes, then holds up a finger. "Yes? Hello?" she says into the receiver in a breezy voice that sounds eerily like Wes' mother. "I'm calling for Wesley Ellenburg. This is his mother, Molly Ellenburg. It is paramount that I speak with him immediately…Oh…Yes, I understand…Thank you." Greer hangs up the phone. "He isn't there," she says in her normal voice. "He's out sick. He won't be there tomorrow either." 

I kick the wall. Why is he hiding from me? I almost scream. 

"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. I feel a bit calmer. "After school, we'll just have to drive to his parents' house in Greenvale. Greer, you know where they live. We'll drive out there and I'll confront him in person. I'll explain everything." 

Sally regards me, coolly. "If you show up there, odds are Mommy's going to beat the hell out of you, you do realize this, correct?" 

I glower at her. 

"I'm not taking you out there," Greer informs me. "I drove you to his apartment, I made the phone call. He doesn't want to speak to you, Shannon. It's over. You need to accept that. And you need to leave him alone." 

I fold my arms and shake my head. "You don't understand," I say. My voice catches. I recover. "You have never been in love. You have casual sex, not relationships. You're always on the lookout for your next conquest. That isn't what this was! You can't lecture me because you don't understand. Sex is a game to you. It's meaningless. Don't lecture and judge me. You aren't better than me." 

Greer glances around, ensuring the hallway is truly deserted. She lowers her voice and hisses, "I have casual sex because it's exciting. Yes, it's meaningless, but I go in knowing that. I don't go in with any expectations beyond having a good time. And I don't sleep with guys who have other expectations either. You can't compare you and me. _You_ had expectations. And so did he. From what you say, you were in a serious, committed relationship. What were his expectations of this relationship, Shannon? Did he think it was going to be long term? Did he think that maybe someday he'd marry you? Buy a house, have kids, and get a dog? What you're feeling right now sucks, but he feels fifty times worse because he's the one who got fooled. Think of that and leave him alone!" 

I keep my arms folded and look away. 

"Fine!" Greer exclaims, throwing her arms into the air. "I wanted to be your friend again, but God, Shannon, I don't even know who you are." Greer spins around and stomps off down the hallway. 

I turn my head to Sally and give her a pointed look. "Well?" 

Sally shrugs. "Greer said it all," she tells me. "What else can I do? Beat you over the head with a sledge hammer?" 

"You aren't going to lecture me again?" I ask, suspiciously, thinking of yesterday. Sally certainly wasn't afraid to speak her mind then. 

"I prefer to save my breath, thank you." 

I stand, awkwardly and shift from one foot to the next. "If you knew what it's like," I begin, softly, "to need someone because you love them so much – " 

"I was in love once," Sally interrupts. 

I roll my eyes. "Oh, yes, Mr. Italian Riviera and your penicillin shot." 

"I wasn't in love with him," Sally replies, sounding as bored as ever. "I didn't even know him. I was just angry and drank too much tequila." Then she turns and walks away from me, too. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

After school, I actually attempt to do my homework. Maria and I sit together at the kitchen table, our books spread around us. Maria's eating olives straight out of the jar, but I don't say anything. Where's Tiffany? I can't even imagine. 

I can't concentrate either. I chew on the end of my pen, staring at my notes, and everything's a blur. Nothing makes sense anymore. Half-heartedly, I scratch out a translation for my Italian homework. I don't even check my dictionary to make sure it's perfectly correct. 

When the doorbell rings, I leap up so quickly that I knock over my chair. 

"I'll get it!" I announce and make a dash for the front door. I rise onto my toes to peer out the peephole, heart pounding at a breakneck pace. And it halts in an instant and sinks with disappointment. Through the peephole, I see a pumpkin-colored sweater and a girl in loose pigtails. 

I yank open the door. "What are you doing here?" I ask, glumly. 

Mary Anne holds out a covered plate. "Nannie sent me over with this. It's strawberry walnut bread or something. I was hanging out with Kristy and…The Thomas-Brewers are all worried about you and your sisters. They want to know how you are." 

I cock an eyebrow at her. "So…you're their spy?" I respond, icily. 

"No!" Mary Anne protests, cheeks flushing. 

Right. I know all about Kristy and Mary Anne. Mary Anne, Kristy's little errand girl, the gatherer of dirty secrets and the doer of dirty deeds. I fold my arms and tilt sideways, casually, so my shoulder leans into the doorframe. "I don't want that," I say, nodding at the bread. 

Mary Anne continues holding it out to me. "Why not?" she asks. 

"Because it's from the house of self-satisfaction." 

Mary Anne looks at me, curiously. 

"Take it back and tell the Thomas-Brewers to stay out of my life and my sisters' lives and to leave us alone." 

"Kristy's really upset, you know," Mary Anne comments, apparently ignoring what I just said. 

I laugh, meanly. "_Kristy's_ upset?" I howl. "How do you think _I_ feel?" 

"Foolish?" Mary Anne guesses. 

"No!" I snap. What does Mary Anne care anyway? "It's really none of your business," I inform her. "I barely even know you. We've barely spoken in the last three and a half years. Why are you so interested in me and my scandalous life? You like gossiping about me with all your friends?" 

"No. I feel sorry for you," Mary Anne answers, honestly. "And you're the only person I know whose life is worse than mine." 

So. The truth is known. How pleased I am that I make Mary Anne feel superior. She and Kristy deserve each other. "I make you feel better about your own life?" I ask, coldly. 

"Maybe," Mary Anne admits. "You aren't the only person who's disappointed in their life, you know. You aren't the only person who's been rejected and heartbroken." 

"My heart isn't broken!" I protest, furiously. "It's missing! Elizabeth Brewer ripped it out and stole it!" 

I slam the door in Mary Anne's face. 

Then I return to the kitchen and slide into my chair. I pick up my pen and resume pretending to do my homework. Maria continues punching numbers into her calculator. She acts like nothing is amiss. At a quarter to five, we start dinner. Maria and I decide on macaroni casserole because it's a) one of the only things we can make, and b) one of the only things we have all the ingredients for. The A&P appears to have forgotten to deliver our usual groceries on Saturday and I've just now noticed. While Maria dumps the noodles into the strainer, I make a quick call to the A&P and briefly chew out the manager for losing our standing order. What if I hadn't noticed there was no food for another three or four days? 

I hang up and begin grating the cheese. "I think I should have told him to switch our detergent order," I tell Maria. "I think I'm having an allergic reaction to ours. Have you been itching lately?" 

Maria shakes her head. "No. I feel fine," she replies. 

"I'll call him back," I say and set down the grater. 

Before I reach the phone, the laundry room door bangs opens and Mom sweeps into the kitchen. She looks murderous. 

I freeze and stare at her, sickened. Dear Lord. She finally took Elizabeth Brewer's call! 

"You won't believe who called me at work today!" Mom practically screams. 

Oh, no. Oh, no. 

"Who?" asks Maria. 

"Someone from Social Services!" 

I remain frozen for a moment. What? I blink, confused. 

"Someone's filed a report on your father and I! A social worker called wanting to set up a home visit!" Mom shrieks. "She refused to tell me who filed the report, but I know who it was!" Mom points in the direction of Kristy's house. "That Brewer woman! That nosy, meddling busybody! Who does that damn woman think she is? Calling and making up outrageous lies about our family! You won't believe the insanity the social worker was telling me about! Shannon, that you're having sex with teachers and Tiffany's running some kind of upstairs brothel and Maria's eating canned pie filling for dinner!" 

"Are they going to take us away?" Maria asks and I don't miss that her voice sounds almost hopeful. 

"They can't take us away!" I shout at Mom. 

"Of course not," Mom replies, angrily. "No one's going anywhere. Social Services has much more important problems to deal with than the ravings of a madwoman. I don't know what kind of strings that Brewer woman pulled, but your father and I can pull just as many, just as hard. Don't worry. Your father's already making phone calls. This whole embarrassing thing will be smoothed over in no time. I realize Elizabeth Brewer thinks she's awfully high and mighty for snagging herself a millionaire, but that doesn't count for anything. Old money still matters in this town. Who is she? She's no one. Your father's a Kilbourne. That still matters in this town, too." 

Maria drops the strainer as tears pour down her face. She races from the kitchen, sobbing into her hands. 

Mom tosses an arm into the air. "See? That Brewer woman's upset Maria!" 

"Is the social worker coming here?" I ask, fearfully. Dear Lord. Maria would tell her everything! 

"No! No one's coming here! I told you, your father's taking care of it. Money and power, Shannon, that's what matters," Mom says, then huffs out of the room. 

I pick up the cheese grater and hurl it across the room. It knocks a decorative plate off a shelf. The plate shatters. Damn those Thomas-Brewers! It isn't enough they ruined Wes' and my lives, they have to destroy my entire family's as well? Plus, they just broke my dead grandmother's favorite plate. 


	44. Chapter 44

I am awakened Wednesday morning by the sound of Maria screaming. 

I leap out of bed and dash into the hall. Maria's in the middle of the hallway, jumping up and down, shrieking and batting at her head. Tiffany flies out of her bedroom followed by my parents out of theirs. Mom races down the hall in a silk gown and short robe and Dad's right behind her, half-dressed with shaving cream slathered all over his face. 

"What the hell is going on out here?" Mom bellows. 

"My hair!" Maria screeches. "There's something in my hair!" 

Mom reaches Maria and grabs her left wrist. "Hold still," she commands and Maria obeys. Mom parts Maria's hair and begins picking through it with her fingers. "My God," Mom groans, "how the hell did you get lice?" 

"Lice!" Tiffany and I exclaim. 

"Lice?" Dad repeats. 

Maria screams. 

"Knock that off," Mom snaps. She continues searching through Maria's hair. "I can see the nits and there's at least one louse crawling around in there. Stop screaming, Maria! It's perfectly treatable. I know where you picked this up. At the Brewer house!" Mom says in disgust. She moves away from Maria and grabs my arm, pulling me toward her. Her fingers begin inching through my hair. "You have them, too," she announces. 

"I do not!" I protest. 

"I see the nits. Come here, Tiffany. This is just fabulous, girls. Your father and I probably have them, too. This is going to make me late for my meeting. Ted, you'll have to go down to the pharmacy and buy some permethrin shampoo." 

"I have an early deposition!" 

"Fine! Shannon, you'll have to go then. Wash your sisters' hair and comb out all the nits. Then strip the beds and wash all the sheets in hot water. You'll have to take the bedspreads to the dry cleaners. It's a good thing Mrs. Bryar comes today. I'll leave a note telling her to wash everything in sight. This is really inconvenient, girls!" 

It's hard not to glare at Maria. Of course, it's not _really_ her fault. It's those Thomas-Brewers'. _Again_. 

"Mom…" Tiffany says, meekly. "Can you get lice _anywhere_ on your body?" 

"Of course. Anywhere there's hair," Mom replies, absently. She places her hands on her hips and sighs, staring down at Maria's hair. "Why?" 

"I think…I think I have lice…somewhere else…" 

"What?" Mom asks, distractedly. Then her face changes. She rolls her eyes. "Oh, _God_," she groans. 

"I thought it was a yeast infection!" 

"You can't tell the difference?" Mom snaps. 

Maria stares at them from one to the other. I also stare, perplexed. Then it dawns on me. I gasp, hand flying to my mouth. 

"Have you…have you noticed little pimples around your thigh area?" I ask Tiffany and she nods. "I thought I was allergic to the laundry detergent!" I cry. 

Mom throws her hands into the air. "They have crabs, Ted," she informs Dad. 

Dad makes a horrific face. "Gross!" 

"Huh?" says Maria. 

"They have pubic lice, Maria," Mom explains, irritably. "Well, I certainly hope the rest of us don't get _that_, too." 

I turn on Tiffany. "Thanks a lot, Tiffany!" I shriek at her. 

Tiffany's jaw drops. "_Me_?" she squeals. "I thought it was established that we got them from Maria!" 

Maria scowls. "I don't have crabs!" she shouts. 

"Then we got it from Shannon!" Tiffany yells. "Thanks a lot, Shannon!" 

Mom presses her fingers to her temple and sighs. She thinks _this_ is bad? 

"No, you know where we got them?" I screech. "Probably from one of Dad's hookers!" 

Dad laughs, loud and fake. "Oh ho ho ho," he chortles. "I don't think so." 

"Hookers?" Mom shrieks. "Hookers!" She whirls around and slugs Dad hard in the chest. 

Tiffany points an accusing finger at Mom. "We got it from Julian!" 

Mom's face registers brief surprise, but she recovers swiftly. "This has gotten beyond ridiculous," she says, testily. "We know where the lice came from. Maria brought it home from the Brewers. Now, Maria, I'm not saying it's completely your fault, but you should be more careful about what type of people you consort with. Stay away from those people and that house!" Mom spins around, offering a final venomous glare at Dad and storms down the hallway. 

Maria's face has flushed crimson red. "I think it's really disgusting that none of you know who gave us crabs!" she shouts, then runs into her bedroom and slams the door. 

I narrow my eyes at Tiffany. "I don't even want to know how you gave me crabs," I spit out. 

"And I don't want to know how _you_ gave _me_ crabs," she shoots back. "But I think I know. You're always in my stuff!" 

I spin on my heels and stomp back into my bedroom, kicking the door shut. 

An hour and a half later, Tiffany, Maria, and I are sitting in my car outside the pharmacy on Essex, waiting for the pharmacists to show up. We've already hauled the bedspreads to the dry cleaners and at home our bed sheets are washing in very hot water. Every so often, Tiffany and I glare at each other. Ten minutes to nine, the pharmacists finally pull up beside us and get out of their car. We watch them walk up to the front door and the male pharmacist unlocks the door. 

"All right, Maria, go in and ask for the shampoo," I tell her. 

"I'm not going in!" Maria protests from the backseat. "You go in. You're the one with crabs!" 

My face grows warm. No way can I walk inside that pharmacy and have a conversation with those pharmacists about treating my head and pubic lice. 

"Even though this is Shanny's fault," Tiffany announces, nastily, "I'll go in. Give me the money." She holds out her hand, refusing to look at me. 

I slap it into her palm. How is this _my_ fault? I'm not the one who had sex with two guys in two days time! I certainly didn't get lice from Wes. I groan, inwardly. Oh, no. If Wes ends up with crabs…that will just make reconciliation that much harder. Great. I'm never wearing anything I find in Tiffany's bedroom ever again. Nor am I ever sitting on her bed again. From now on, I'm using the downstairs bathroom, too. 

When Tiffany comes out of the pharmacy, she's carrying a large white bag. She opens the door and slides into the passenger seat. "I bought seven bottles," she says. "That guy in there told me that head lice and pubic lice are two totally different things. He said he wasn't sure he'd ever met anyone who accomplished having both simultaneously." 

"Lovely. You must be so proud," I reply. 

"You have both, too," she retorts. 

"Only because I've been using the same toilet as you." 

"You can't get crabs from a toilet seat," Tiffany snaps. "I asked. He said you only get them from sexual contact, clothes, or bedding. I told you to stop stealing my stuff!" 

"You and that pharmacist had quite the conversation, didn't you?" 

"Well, he was a lot more helpful than anyone in our house!" 

Maria leans in between our seats. "When the social worker comes – " 

"There isn't going to be a social worker!" I interrupt her. "Dad's taking care of it!" 

Maria slumps back in her seat and folds her arms. Is she nuts? She _wants_ to be taken away? 

As soon as we get home, I wash Maria's hair. First with regular shampoo, then towel dry it and apply the permethrin shampoo. I scrub at her head so hard she shrieks that I'm hurting her. While the shampoo sits on her head, Maria washes mine, then Tiffany's since Tiffany and I both refuse to let the other touch us. I don't understand why Tiffany's upset with me. This is obviously her fault. She's the one who brought repulsive Sam Thomas into her bed. It doesn't shock me in the least that Sam has head lice _and_ pubic lice. I intend to inform Elizabeth and Kristy at the first possible opportunity. 

After rinsing the permethrin shampoo out of our hair, we slowly and carefully pick through each other's hair with the nit combs. It takes forever. I boil silently inside thinking of Mom and Dad, happily off at work while I take care of everything. As usual. I hope they have a fun time treating each other tonight because I'm certainly not helping them. While I'm finishing picking the nits from Maria's hair, Tiffany fills one of the sinks with water and pours in an entire bottle of household cleaner. Then she tosses in all our hairbrushes and combs. 

"The pharmacist said to do this," she explains, then peels off the rest of her clothes and steps into the shower, pulling the curtain closed. "Hand me another bottle of shampoo," she orders, sticking an arm out from behind the curtain. "I need to do my other treatment." 

I hand over the bottle. "You can pick those nits out yourself," I inform her. 

"I intend to," she snaps. 

Mrs. Bryar arrives at eleven forty-five and is surprised to find Tiffany, Maria, and I in the living room, folding our freshly washed linens. Right now, our pajamas and clothes from this morning are spinning in the wash in very, very hot water. The rest of our dirty clothes lay in a pile in the laundry room, waiting for their turn. Tiffany informs Mrs. Bryar that Maria gave us head lice and although Maria scowls quite viciously, she does not protest. Immediately, Mrs. Bryar sets to work vacuuming our bedrooms. 

At fifteen after twelve, Tiffany, Maria, and I pull into the SDS parking lot. Beside me, Tiffany grumbles that we should be allowed to miss the entire day. But I have an important lab in geology and Maria has a Spanish test. 

"You're going to have to tell Tyler, you know," I inform Tiffany, as I turn off the engine. 

Tiffany lifts her nose in the air. "I'm lucky I have a supportive partner," she says, haughtily. "Unlike some other people whose names happen to be Shannon. Have fun telling the math geek about the lovely parting gift you gave him." Tiffany hops out of the car and slams the door. 

It's lunch period. I find Greer and Sally eating together in a corner of the cafeteria. 

With Abby Stevenson. 

I plop down in a chair beside Sally and glare at Abby. She bites into her banana and looks in the other direction. 

"Where have you been?" Greer demands, like she's my mother. "We just called your house!" 

"I had something to take care of," I answer, vaguely. 

Greer gives me an exasperated look. 

"It had nothing to do with him," I snap. I realize I forgot to bring my lunch. I also forgot to eat breakfast. I'm not hungry anyway. "If you must know, Maria gave us head lice." 

Sally pushes back from the table, stands, and walks around to sit beside Abby. 

"I treated my hair!" I exclaim. 

"I don't think you're supposed to be at school," Greer says. "Shouldn't you be at home combing out the dead lice?" 

"Not for another eight hours." 

Abby turns to look at Sally. "You're right. She's totally gone off the deep end." 

"Don't judge me, cheater!" I retort. "Oh, yeah, and thanks a lot, Greer, for telling me that Abby's the one who sold you my paper!" 

Greer stares at me from over her sandwich. She lowers it, chewing slowly. "Why would I tell you? You wouldn't speak to me or accept my apology. _Abby_ was speaking to me." 

"And that makes it all right?" 

Greer furrows her brow. "Why are you even bringing this up? I really don't think you're in a position to lecture me. It's becoming increasingly difficult to hang around you, you know." 

I don't even know why I'm bringing it up. Who cares? It doesn't matter. It's just stupid homework. I should give Abby all my papers. I'll simply toss them out my bedroom window. My past perfection can rain down on her. 

"Aren't you supposed to be at a Smart and Sober club meeting?" Sally asks me. 

I wave a hand, dismissively. Who cares about that either? 

"I took notes for you during class," Sally tells me, lifting the flap of her messenger bag. "We're finishing today's microbiology lab tomorrow. You can help Kat and I finish it and then you'll still get credit." 

"I'd rather eat my foot than put my name on anything with Kristy Thomas'." 

"You're crazy," Abby tells me. She crumples her lunch bag and stands. "You're like hit someone with a bat crazy." She turns and walks away. 

"Yeah, tell Kristy to watch out!" I call after her. 

Sally turns to Greer. "Did someone get hit with a bat?" she asks her. 

Greer brushes her off. "Lindsey isn't here again today," she informs me. 

"Did Lindsey Dupree hit someone with a bat?" Sally inquires, arching an eyebrow. 

I wave my hand. "Only Kristy," I answer. "Don't worry about Lindsey," I say to Greer. "Her grandparents are taking care of her. They're college professors. They're smart. They know what they're doing." 

Greer looks doubtful. 

I wave that away, too. "How many sick days do you think public school teachers are allowed?" I ask Greer and Sally. I called Stoneybrook Middle School this morning while Tiffany and Maria were dressing. Wes called in sick again. He can't hide at his parents' house forever. 

"Do you have a dictionary with you?" Sally asks. 

"No. Why?" 

"Because I want you to look up the word _stalker_." 

If I had my microbiology notebook, I'd smack her again. 

Someone stops beside our table. We all look up. It's Meg Jardin. She looks down on us, puckering her cherry red lips. 

"Are you all right?" she asks me. 

"Yes!" 

"Because Kara and I were watching you from across the room and we wanted to let you know that you look atrocious. Are you eating? Because you look like I did at the end of the summer that year my mother sent me away to fat camp." 

I narrow my eyes to slits. 

"That doesn't improve how you look," Meg says. 

Greer tosses a package of twinkies at me. "God, Shannon! Will you eat something? Meg's right. You look terrible. Meg and Kara could tell from all the way across the cafeteria!" 

"Why aren't you eating?" Meg asks me. 

"None of your damn business, _Margaret_," I snap. "Go commit a hate crime with your boyfriend and get out of my face." 

Meg puckers her lips again and adjusts the navy and gold silk scarf arranged neatly around her neck. "Don't call me Margaret," she replies, snottily, then stalks off back across the room. No doubt to gossip about me with Kara Ferguison. 

Greer gapes at me. Even Sally appears appalled. 

I don't care. 

I refuse to work with Abby during geology lab. She partners with Amanda Kerner instead and I pair up with some boy named Lawrence. He scolds me three times because I have no idea how to read the topographic map. It's a dumb lab anyway. During study period, Greer and I sit together like we've sat together every day this week. Meg watches us from her empty table. I pretend not to notice. 

After school, Greer, Sally, and I leave the building together. I wish they'd stop following me around all the time. I still despise them. Kristy and Abby are a few feet in front of us, walking close together and whispering. I see Charlie parked at the curb waiting for them. While we're going down the steps, I glance up and see Dr. Dupree's station wagon turn into the SDS parking lot. 

"There's Lindsey now," I say to Greer. "See? She's fine." 

The station wagon's barely come to a full stop when Lindsey jumps out and rushes toward us. Everyone, including Kristy and Abby, freeze mid-step and stare. 

Lindsey has no hair. 

Or at least much less than she had six days ago. Her blonde hair falls just above her chin. 

"George and Sadie cut my hair!" she screeches at us. "Dr. Petrinski told them, too! They cut my hair! They cut it with the kitchen scissors!" 

Everyone stares at her, speechless. 

"George held me and Sadie cut it!" Lindsey shouts. She doesn't seem to notice that people are staring. "Dr. Petrinski said it was a crutch!" 

"It looks good," Kristy tells her. 

"It's cute," Abby insists. 

"Really!" Greer chimes in. 

"I hadn't cut it since second grade!" Lindsey cries. "They'll regret ever doing this to me!" Lindsey begins stomping up the steps. "I have to get my books!" she calls back to us. 

Horrified, we all watch her retreat until she disappears through the front doors. Then we turn back around toward the parking lot. Dr. Dupree's sitting in the station wagon, gripping the steering wheel, staring at us without expression. 

"Does Granny know about the bat?" Sally asks. 

"Lindsey's fine," I insist and race down the steps, not looking at Kristy or Abby, and thankful that Greer and Sally don't follow. 


	45. Chapter 45

I find Wes. 

It's not so difficult considering I find him at Stoneybrook Middle School. It's Friday afternoon, almost a whole week since Wes learned the truth. It feels like so much more time has past between us. I've almost forgotten how it feels to be near him, how his cologne smells, how warm his hands are on my skin. I am slipping away, in and out of life, and my recollections slip with me. 

I know Wes went to work today because I called SMS this morning before school. The secretary rang his room, but he wasn't in yet. She promised me, though, that he would be coming in today. I didn't tell Greer or Sally. I didn't tell anyone. Not that there's anyone else to tell. I think everyone else has given up on me. And I don't care. 

I shake Greer after study period, claiming to be heading to the yearbook room. Since Lindsey's no longer coming to school, there's not exactly anyone working on the Student Life section anymore. Dr. Dupree assured Greer over the phone that Lindsey will be back in school on Monday. They're simply "smoothing out some bumps in the road." Or something. I suppose if worse comes to worst, Amanda Kerner can pick up the slack. She's good for that sort of thing. 

I duck into the girls' restroom and begin changing out of my uniform. Wes can't see me in my uniform. It will only drive home the truth that I am still in high school. Stuffing my uniform into a tote bag, I slip into a loose black skirt and a wine-colored blouse. I slide into a pair of black heels and brush my hair. It's finally fluffy and wavy again. This morning, I finally got to wash it. I don't think I'll tell Wes about the lice. Not today. 

I hurry out to my car. The parking lot is practically empty already. Overhead the sky is overcast and ominous. I don't take it as a sign. I drive across town to Stoneybrook Middle School, which has just let out for the weekend. Kids spill out of the building, running to their buses and pedaling off on their bikes. I spot Wes' red Volvo in the parking lot. I park a fair distance from it. I realize once I enter the school that I don't know where Wes' classroom is located. Luckily for me, I spy Vanessa Pike leaning against some lockers, talking to a boy I don't recognize. 

I stride straight up to her. "Hello, Vanessa," I greet her. 

"Er…hello," she replies and I know she doesn't recognize me. 

Good. 

"Can you tell me what room Mr. Ellenburg is in?" 

"Mr. Ellenburg? Sure. Room seventeen. Go straight down the hall and make a right." 

"Thank you." 

I walk down the hall with false confidence. Inside, I feel sickened. Inside, I shake. But outside, I maintain my composure. How I accomplish this, I've no idea. I assumed I had fallen apart inside and out. 

I find Wes' classroom easily. The door is closed and I peer in through the small window. Wes is at his desk, which is an absolute disaster area. He's bent over a stack of papers and his grade book. I watch him. Every so often, he punches some numbers into a calculator, then records the number in his book. My heart quickens just seeing him. 

I open the door, quietly, and step into the classroom. 

"Just a minute," Wes says without glancing up. 

"Wes?" I say, softly. 

Wes' head snaps up. His eyes widen in panic. "Oh, my God!" he cries. 

Not exactly the reaction I hoped for. 

I shut the door and walk further into the classroom. "Wes, I need to speak to you," I say, still speaking soft and calm. "I want to explain." 

Wes jumps out of his chair and backward, knocking into it and falling over. I dash over, bending over him. Wes rubs the back of his head. 

"Are you okay?" I ask. 

Wes looks up at me, eyes widening again. He springs to his feet and backs away. "You need to leave," he tells me, firmly, holding out a hand. 

"Wes, please let me explain," I plead. Tears push against my eyes, wanting to be free. 

"You don't need to explain anything. You just need to leave, Shannon." Wes drops his voice. "Oh, my God, what if someone saw you? Are you consciously attempting to destroy my life?" 

"I never wanted to hurt you!" 

"Are you serious?" Wes demands. "You didn't think this would hurt me? Oh, my God, Shannon! Did you think this would be okay with me? You realize I am _nine years_ older than you? You're still in high school! I feel like a creep. I feel like a lecherous old man. I feel like I violated a child." 

"I'm not a child!" I protest and the tears begin to leak out. I can't fight them. I can't hold them in. "How can you say I make you feel dirty? I did everything I could to please you, Wes! I tried so hard! I thought you loved me? You always wanted to be with me. You always wanted to know how I was and what I was doing. You always said sex with me was fantastic. How can you just take that all back?" 

"Because now I know you're in high school," Wes hisses. His face softens a bit. "And all those things were true. I did want to be with you and I worried about you and the…and I enjoyed…being with you…because I loved you. I really did love you, Shannon." 

"And now? You can't just stop loving me! I'm still the same girl! You have to still love me!" 

Wes looks down at the floor. He doesn't answer. 

"I love you, Wes. I need you. I don't have anyone else." 

Wes clears his throat. "Mrs. Brewer explained about your home life and your parents. I mean, I already kind of knew. I mean, I did meet your dad. I think he's really sick. I can't believe he was going to let us…up in your bedroom. No wonder you're so…" Wes doesn't finish, but I know what he's thinking. _You're so screwed up._

"Elizabeth Brewer has wrecked my life. We were perfectly happy before she showed up and tore it apart." 

Wes stares at me, an odd expression on his face. "Is that all you still care about? Yourself?" he asks, his voice as odd as his expression. "Mrs. Brewer did us both a favor. Do you even realize how much worse things could have been? At least she was discreet! We could have been discovered anywhere by anyone! You may think your life is wrecked, but can you even comprehend what could have happened to mine? What could still happen? Oh, my God, Shannon, how many people _know_?" 

I mentally add the people in my head. Elizabeth. Kristy. Janet. Anna. Abby. Greer. Sally. Mary Anne. Claudia. Erica. Lauren. Pete. Ross. Tiffany. Maria. Dad. Oh, and Watson and Nannie. 

"Hardly anyone," I reply. 

"It took you much too long to come up with that answer," Wes says. The panic has returned to his eyes. 

"No one will tell," I promise. 

"You expect me to believe anything you say?" Wes demands. 

"Yes because I know you still love me. You won't deny it," I say. There is hope. There is hope. He still loves me. A part of him does. It's there somewhere, wanting me, wanting to forgive me. 

Wes runs his fingers back through his hair. He looks sort of twitchy and nervous. Panicked still. "I should have figured this out long ago," he says, not looking at me. "I was so blind. I should have known something wasn't right. I guess I did know. I just…I just…I liked you so much, Shannon. I knew it was weird the way you always wanted me lying on top of you and your tantrum in New York and you never wanted to leave the apartment…and I was selfish. I should have realized." 

I'm losing him. I'm losing him. He's moving away. He will reject me. "It was my fault, Wes. All my fault," I say, soothingly. "Wes, I'll make it up to you. I love you. That wasn't a lie. I proved it to you. I'll prove it again." I begin unbuttoning my blouse, quickly with nimble fingers, and spread it open to reveal the rose-colored satin bra Wes loves me in. "I'll let you make love to me again," I whisper. "Right here. Wherever you want." 

Wes backs into a file cabinet. His eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. He looks terrified. I don't hesitate. I don't think. I move toward him, fast closing the space between us. I grab his belt buckle and begin to loosen it. 

"I'll give you oral," I offer, even though I hate doing it. 

Wes pushes my hands away and slides out from between the cabinet and me. "No," he says, holding up his hands. "You need to button your shirt and leave. Oh, my God, we're in _my classroom_, Shannon!" 

"We can go back to your apartment." 

"No! No! This is over, Shannon. We're not getting back together. _You're in high school_. Sex doesn't fix everything. You seem to think it does. This…this…" Wes moves further away, moving toward the door. "You can't equate sex with love. You seem to think that all you have to do is lie down and _let_ me make love to you and I'll forgive anything. I'm not a pervert, Shannon, even if you've made me feel like one." Wes lowers his hands, apparently deciding that with an entire classroom between us, he is finally safe. "If you really want to make it up to me and prove you love me, Shannon, then you can leave me alone. You have serious problems and I can't fix them for you. I'm sorry. As much as I still…" Wes' voice catches. "Please be gone when I come back." Wes places his hand on the doorknob. 

He's leaving me! 

"You can't leave me!" I shout. My head fogs. I can't think. Dear Lord. Dear Lord. "If you leave me, I'll tell! I'll tell your boss! I'll tell everyone! If you leave me!" 

"You never loved me then," Wes says. 

And he leaves. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Everything is a blur. 

I don't recall leaving SMS. I don't recall getting in my car. I don't recall driving home. And yet, here I am, sitting in the garage, gripping the steering wheel and staring at the wall. I've been crying. I don't recall the actual act, but my cheeks are moist and my eyeliner smudged. I wonder how long I've sat here. I wonder if it matters. If it matters to anyone. 

It does not. 

I get out of the car. I walk to the opening of the garage, dragging my messenger bag behind me. Across the street, kitty-corner, Kristy and Abby race around Kristy's front lawn chasing a soccer ball. David Michael and Emily Michelle are with them. So are Karen and Andrew Brewer, Kristy's stepsiblings from Chicago. I guess it's already their winter break. Mary Anne's sitting on the front steps, knitting. Doesn't she have a home of her own? Doesn't she know what happens when you let the Thomas-Brewers into your life? They rip it to shreds. And they enjoy it. 

I go inside. 

Mrs. Bryar's in the living room, laying flat on her stomach on the carpet, digging something out from underneath the couch. I stop in the doorway and drop my bag. It thuds on the floor. Mrs. Bryar looks up. 

"Hello, Shannon," she greets me. She pushes up onto her knees and struggles to her feet. She has some kind of plastic figurine in her hand. She sets it on the coffee table. "Tiffany and her boyfriend went to his house to do homework. Maria's spending the night with her friend, Lily. She said for you to call her if you need to talk." 

I guess Maria's forgiven me for the lice incident. 

"And your father called an hour ago," Mrs. Bryar continues. "He's going to New York for the evening. And then, your mother called and said she forgot to tell you, she's going skiing in Vermont this weekend. She said she couldn't remember the name of the lodge, but she's certain you'll be fine." 

I shrug. What else is new? 

"I had hoped," Mrs. Bryar says, picking up a dust rag from the coffee table and twirling it around, "that the call from Social Services might change a few things around here." 

I blink at her. "What?" I reply, confused. 

Mrs. Bryar stares at me from behind her glasses. 

It sinks in. 

"_You_ called Social Services?" I shriek. 

"Of course. I should have done it long ago. Long before you started sleeping with teachers and Tiffany started charging for sex." 

Maria and her fat mouth! How appropriate that Kristy Thomas is her idol. 

"Maria needs to learn to keep her mouth shut," I tell Mrs. Bryar, angrily. 

"Maria is twelve years old," Mrs. Bryar replies, matter-of-factly. "And you're all out of control. Shannon, what are you _thinking_?" 

"Nothing's out of control" I protest. "I have everything under control! And you _don't_ understand! How could you? You're like a _spinster_!" 

Mrs. Bryar scrunches her face. "I'm _divorced_, Shannon. And that has nothing to do with anything. You're right I don't understand. What has happened to you? You've always been such a nice, responsible girl. And now you're dating your teacher – " 

"He's not my teacher! He doesn't even teach at my school! And he left me! He left me because Elizabeth Brewer told him I'm only seventeen!" 

" – and Tiffany's prostituting herself and Maria's trying to adopt herself out and - " 

"You aren't listening!" 

"Well, neither are you," Mrs. Bryar snaps. 

"Do you realize what you've done?" I demand. "They're going to take my sisters away! They're going to spill all our secrets all over the street! Everyone will talk about us! Everyone will know!" 

"No one is going to remove you from this house," Mrs. Bryar says, sternly. "I knew that when I called and filed the report. My cousin is a social worker. I filed the report with her. I know that nothing will be done. Someone will come out, they'll look around your big, expensive house, and that will be it. Social Services is overworked and overcrowded. They aren't going to take you away. Certainly, your parents are already attempting to have the entire problem swept under the rug. I meant this as a wake up call to them. They don't listen to anyone. They only hear themselves. Sort of like you." 

I narrow my eyes, practically shaking with anger. She's just like Elizabeth Brewer. Another self-righteous, meddlesome adult. I can't believe how much I used to like her. I can't believe I used to sometimes wish she were my mother. Who is she? She is no one. "Who do you think you are?" I spit out. "You're just the hired help!" 

Something flickers across Mrs. Bryar's face. Hurt? Surprise? It moves and disappears too quickly. And then her face goes blank. "Fine," she says, tightly. "I quit." She tosses the dust rag to me. "I'm sick of this family. Tell Maria I said goodbye and that I feel very sorry for her." Mrs. Bryar strides past me, head held high. 

I stare at the dust rag, my own words sinking in. And then Mrs. Bryar's. She's leaving? She's leaving me, too? I turn around and chase after her. She's already out the front door, coat tucked under one arm, moving swiftly toward her car. 

"Mrs. Bryar!" I call out, leaping across the foyer. "Mrs. Bryar! Come back! Come back!" I skid to a halt on the porch. 

Mrs. Bryar turns when she's halfway down the front walk. "You'll find someone else to clean your house," she says, coolly. She turns again and continues down the walk. 

"Don't go! Don't go!" I shout after her. "I'm all alone! Don't go!" 

Mrs. Bryar drives away. 

Across the street, in Kristy's front yard, Karen cups her hands around her mouth. "Hey, Shannon!" she hollers. "Is it true that you're crazy?" 

Kristy smacks her in the back of the head and whatever happens next I don't see because I run back inside. 


	46. Chapter 46

"You should come over." 

That's how Sally White greets me when I answer the phone Saturday morning, still half-asleep, still dressed in yesterday's clothes. 

"What time is it?" I ask, groggily. 

"It's nine o' clock. Why? Aren't you awake yet?" 

"No. I'm not." 

"Get up then." 

I roll over onto my side and check the alarm clock. Sally lied. It's eight fifty-five. My head hurts. It's pounding violently. I hurt all over. I'm surprised I still feel anything at all. 

"Well?" 

"I have to take a shower," I tell her. "And get dressed and ready." 

"Why? Do you really think any of those things will improve your current appearance?" 

Sally White is utterly detestable. 

But I go anyway. 

What else do I have to do? 

It occurs to me as I turn onto Green House Drive that I've never been to Sally's house. I didn't even know which house is hers. I knew she lived on Green House like Meg, but that is it. I pass Meg's house. Her younger brother, Penn, is standing in the front yard, shouting at the workers putting up the Jardins' Christmas lights. Sally lives far down at the end of the block. Her house isn't visible from the street. It's surrounded by a low brick wall and masked by a forest of pine trees. I pull up the long drive until the gabled house comes into view. It's a greenish color. It doesn't look like Sally White's house. 

A maid lets me in and points me in the direction of a large parlor. From the foyer, I hear Sally at the piano, banging out another funeral march. I follow the sound. Sally's seated at a grand piano looking not quite like Sally White. Her blunt-cut blonde hair's tucked behind her ears and she isn't wearing any make-up. She looks at least five years younger than usual. She's dressed in black sweat shorts and a striped tank top. She glances up when I enter the room, but continues banging on the piano keys. 

"Is that your _Summer Awakening_ ode to your lost virginity?" I ask, stopping beside the piano. 

Sally sort of scowls. "No. It's a completely different piece," she replies. "I began composing it last night. It's about you. I'm calling it _Good Morning, Starshine_. Of course, that's a real song title, but it doesn't matter. That's what I'm calling it." 

Just what I always wanted – a funeral march in my honor. 

"Why do you insist on calling me Starshine?" I ask. 

"Because you twinkle above us," Sally answers without hesitation. 

It's my turn to scowl. Why can't she simply answer questions directly? Doesn't she realize my life is in disrepair? I really don't need her further aggravating it. 

"It's good that you came over," Sally tells me, fingers gliding over the piano keys. "You still don't look too fabulous, but that's understandable. Greer was worried about you, so I promised I'd force you out of the house today. Greer's up at Yale with that dorky brother of hers. Something about end of the term parties. Searching for the next conquest, I suspect." 

Of course. Greer never stops. Even when my life is in shambles, she chases after boys and beer. 

"Did I ever tell you about the Italian Riviera, Starshine?" Sally asks in this perfectly normal conversational tone. 

"You've mentioned it about a million times." 

"But that isn't the story," Sally replies. She hits a low, deep note. "You aren't as special as you like to pretend, Starshine. You aren't the first person to fall in love and screw it up. Would you like to hear the story? I hope so because I'm telling it anyway. So, two summers ago, my parents and I were living on the Riviera and I met this boy. Jarkko. That was his name. He was from Finland and he and his parents were visiting for the summer. I fell in love with him. Then one day, we had a horrible fight. It was about something petty that escalated into something bigger. I wouldn't forgive him. I was very nasty and cruel. So, to get back at me, he slept with some girl from the village. When I found out, I decided to do the same back. I went to a bar and got drunk on tequila and gave my virginity to the guy who picked up the tab. He gave me a lovely burning sensation in return. By the time it was all over, Jarkko and I were so infuriated with each other that we never spoke again. He went back to Finland and my parents and I moved to South Africa for two months." 

"What does this have to do with me?" I ask with a sigh. 

Sally looks up. "Not everything's about you," she says. "Nevertheless, like me, you have broken your own heart. You created your heartache with your lies and deceptions, just like I created mine with my pettiness and cruelty. I've accepted that and someday you will, too." 

I open my mouth to protest, but Sally cuts me off before I can speak. 

"You can blame everyone else as much as you want, but it won't change things or make you feel any better. Not really. This isn't Kat's fault. This isn't Kat's mom's fault. This isn't Wes' fault. I know you feel awful right now. And you probably will for a long time. You're humiliated and heartbroken. I will allow you to grieve for this relationship and for the apparent loss of your good sense, but I do ask of you, please start eating and stop stalking." Sally presses her fingers down on the keys for the final note and her song ends. 

"You aren't my friend, you know," I inform her, coldly. 

"Aren't I? It doesn't seem that many people are fighting for that privilege these days." 

Sally is unbelievable. She shows up one day, slides into our group like we've been saving her place all these years, proceeds to annoy and insult us, and now here she is declaring that this makes her my friend. 

"We aren't friends. You're just a pest." 

"Then why are you standing in my piano parlor?" 

Because I have no one else. 

I don't answer. 

"Have you ever been the new girl, Starshine?" Sally asks. Her fingers glide over the piano keys once more, playing something light and airy. "I've spent my entire life as the new girl. Kids don't like new girls. We are suspicious. We are curiosities who break up the routine. We cause a disturbance in the social structure. I am a perpetual new girl, Starshine. All my life, I've lived in two or three different cities a year. Cities all over the world. My mother's searching for herself. She hasn't found herself yet. My father wants her to be happy, but she never is. Never satisfied with anything. There is always something better somewhere else. We move for her. She is my father's greatest prize. There is no benefit in making friends, Starshine, when you might pack up and leave the next day. The only reason kids have ever liked me is because I tell them my mother is a movie star and I own horses and attend premieres and big concerts. Kids use me just as I use them. You and your friends did that in the eighth grade. Don't deny it. None of you liked me. You liked what I had to offer." 

"Your life is so tragic." 

"I detect sarcasm in your voice, Starshine. I never claimed to be a tragedy. That claim is all yours." 

"I'm leaving," I announce. I don't need to take this from her. I don't need her flippancy and condescension. She really knows nothing about me or my life. She makes assumptions and calls them fact. 

"I won't beg you to stay," Sally replies in her cool, smooth voice. "Isn't that what you want?" 

"I don't want anything from you," I snap and spin around. I begin to stride away, fast leaving her behind. The piano continues, filling all the space in the room. It swells around me. I pause and sway. Then I fall. 

When I open my eyes, Sally's staring down at me, along with a tall, curly haired blonde woman and an elderly man with snow white hair. I'm on the parlor floor. The back of my head is sore. 

"Greer and I told you to eat," Sally says and holds out her hand. 

I take it, reluctantly, and she pulls me to my feet. 

I dust myself off, embarrassed, feeling a blush spread over my skin. 

"Are you all right?" asks Sally's mother, the infamous Lisanne Faulkner. 

My blush burns hotter, remembering all I've seen of Sally White's mother. 

"I'm fine," I mumble. 

"She doesn't eat," Sally tells her mother. She turns to me. "When did you last eat?" 

I shrug. I honestly don't remember. Maybe three days ago. Maybe more. Maybe less. 

Sally's mother arches an eyebrow. "I'll call for the cook," she says and leaves the room. 

"That's my mother," Sally says, as if I couldn't figure that out myself. "And this is my father." 

Sally's father smiles and extends his hand. I take it and grip it loosely. Sally's father is at least seventy years old. He looks like her grandfather! If I weren't so lightheaded, I'd point out to Sally what a hypocrite she is, always teasing Lindsey about the Dr. Duprees. 

"Starving yourself won't solve anything," Sally says. She actually sounds slightly irritated, some real emotion slipping into that dull monotone. "Come on. I'll show you my bedroom. The cook will send up some food. Bye, Dad." 

Sally takes my elbow and leads me into the hallway, then up a twisting staircase. The steps creak beneath our feet. Sally's bedroom is all the way down at the end of the west wing. Even through the fogginess of my thinking, I am surprised when we enter her bedroom. It is not as expected. It looks like a spare bedroom, forgotten and unused in the basement of someone's home. The walls are white and bare. The desk and dresser and night table are also bare of anything but lamps and a stack of books. Several unpacked boxes are shoved into a corner beneath a window. The room is void of any indication that anyone actually lives here. 

"You may lie on my bed, if you wish," Sally says. 

I sit down in a gray floral-print armchair beside the largest window. I look out. Trees block the view. Sally throws herself on her bed and lies on her stomach, kicking her feet into the air. 

"We're all worried about you, Starshine," she informs me. 

"I saw Wes," I blurt out. I don't intend to. I have no control over myself. And I have no one else to tell. 

Sally frowns. "I guess it didn't go so well?" 

I shake my head. "I went to see him at Stoneybrook Middle School. I went to his classroom after school yesterday. He wasn't happy to see me at all." I start to cry. That's all I do these days. Where do all the tears come from? "I don't understand. He admitted he had really loved me and that he had loved being with me. But he wouldn't give me another chance! And he refused to tell me that he _didn't_ love me anymore!" 

Sally's frown deepens. "I hope that doesn't make you think he'll eventually take you back," she says. "Of course he still loves you. If he was actually in love with you before that's not going to stop right away. I think we've already established that you've devastated him and crushed his heart into a million pieces. God, Starshine, he spent almost an entire week hiding out at his parents' house. I don't think it was a mini-vacation from his thrilling existence as a middle school math teacher. He probably cried in Mommy's arms the whole time." 

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. "He said I've made him feel like a creep and a pervert." 

"I think I predicted that one." 

I remove a tissue from my pant pocket and blow my nose. "But he isn't! He's sweet and wonderful. He was the best thing in my life. He really loved me, Sally. He loved things about me that no one else sees. He loved me and overlooked my faults and downfalls. All he ever wanted was to make me happy. He remembered everything I liked and didn't like. He listened to me and cared about my problems. He worried about me." 

"You talk about yourself a lot." 

I wrinkle my nose at her. Well, _of course._ We're talking about the devastation of my life, aren't we? 

"You know what your real problem is, Starshine?" Sally asks and not waiting for an answer, places her hands on either side of her face and makes a forward sweeping motion. "Tunnel vision," she says. 

I sigh, exasperated. "What does that mean?" I inquire, warily. 

"What's my least favorite sandwich to eat at lunch?" 

I sigh again. "I don't know. Pastrami?" 

"See? That's exactly my point." 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

A couple hours later, I come home, still exasperated and cranky from too much time spent in the presence of Sally White. She's so obnoxious. She thinks she knows everything about everything. What a know-it-all. 

I walk into the kitchen through the laundry room and discover Maria seated at the table, Astrid at her feet, eating cherry pie filling from a can. _Again_. 

"That's gross, Maria," I inform her. "The grocery delivery came this morning. There's real food to eat." 

Maria glares at me from over the can. She drops her spoon. "Mrs. Bryar called," she spits out. "She wants you to mail her her last check." 

I pause beside the center island. I hadn't broken the news to Maria yet. I thought I'd do it…eventually. "Mrs. Bryar quit yesterday," I reply, casually with a wave of my hand, like it's no big deal. 

Maria continues to glare at me. "Why do you ruin everything, Shanny?" she shouts. "Why does everyone in this house ruin everything?" Maria bursts into tears and jumps up, knocking over her chair and spooking Astrid. Maria races from the room. 

I chase after her. "Maria!" I yell, dashing toward the foyer, where Maria's headed. 

Maria doesn't listen. She runs out the front door with me in quick pursuit. She tears across our front lawn into the Papadakises yard and keeps going. 

"Where are you going?" I call after her, trying to keep up. Maria's much faster than me. 

Finally, Maria spins around. "Who cares?" she demands. 

"I do!" 

"I'm going to Lily's! Leave me alone!" Maria takes flight again, sprinting across the street and down the other side of McLelland Road. I stand in the gutter outside the Papadakises' house until she disappears around the corner. I wait for her to come back. 

She doesn't. 

When I turn around, Kristy's staring back at me, sitting astride her bicycle. David Michael, Emily Michelle, Karen, and Andrew are behind her, all on bicycles. It's nice she found a new group of friends. Little kids are used to being bossed and lectured. 

"Is Maria all right?" Kristy asks. 

"What does it look like?" I snap. 

Kristy looks at me a moment, then turns to David Michael. "Go after, Maria," she tells him. "She's going to run in front of a car or something." 

"She's twelve. She's not an idiot," I say, testily, as David Michael rides off. 

The other kids follow him. When Karen passes she glances back at me. "I think Shannon's possessed by the crazy ghost of Ben Brewer," she cackles. 

"Knock it off, Karen," Kristy snaps. "You're too old for that." 

"Nice you still have someone to judge," I say, lightly, and begin walking away. 

"Wait! I want to talk to you!" Kristy says and pedals slowly after me. 

"Well, I don't want to talk to you." 

"When did you become so nasty and self-centered?" Kristy demands. "All you care about is yourself. Other people have problems, you know. It's not all about Shannon." 

I laugh, meanly and continue walking. "What problems do you have, Kristin Amanda Thomas? Other than deciding who to judge on any given day?" 

"I never said I was perfect. I make mistakes, too. I _have_ made mistakes. And I pay for them in my own way. At least I don't blame other people for what I've done. I try to be a good person. I try to do good things that matter. I'm not angry at the world because I got caught doing something stupid." 

I spin around to face her. "You know what, Kristin Amanda Thomas? Why don't you go back from where you came from? You don't belong at SDS and you don't belong in this neighborhood. I knew that the moment I saw you." I turn and run up the walkway not waiting for Kristy's response. 

Inside, I watch television, sipping a glass of apple juice. I am all alone. Even Astrid avoids me, choosing to climb the stairs and hide away in Maria's bedroom. Who cares? I don't need anyone. Not really. What has love gotten me? Absolutely nothing. I'm not self-centered. No one else thinks about me, so I have to. If Shannon doesn't do it, who will? No one. No one. No one. 

The front door flies open, banging against the wall. I startle and spill my apple juice all over the carpet. I leap off the couch. Lindsey rushes into the foyer, wild-eyed and panicked. 

"I stabbed Sadie!" she screams. "I stabbed Sadie with the kitchen scissors!" 


	47. Chapter 47

"You stabbed your grandmother?" I shriek. 

"With the kitchen scissors!" 

Oh, dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord. 

"Where did you stab her?" 

"In the kitchen!" 

That's not exactly what I meant. Did she stab her in the arm? In the chest? Oh, dear Lord, did Lindsey _kill_ Dr. Dupree? 

"She was sitting at the kitchen table!" Lindsey shouts and begins pacing the carpet, scratching at her arms. "She was paying bills and she just…she just kept _talking_. She wouldn't stop! She was talking about sending me away, locking me away where they'll strap me down and give me shock treatments! But now I think…you know….maybe she never said those things at all! Shannon…I think…I think maybe…she was talking about ordering Chinese food! But…that's not what I heard! So, I grabbed the kitchen scissors off the counter and stabbed her. She looked really surprised." 

My head spins. I hold it, as if to physically still it. Dear Lord. What am I supposed to do? 

"Did you leave her in the kitchen?" 

"Yes." 

"Where is your grandfather?" 

"He was in his office." 

I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Dr. Dupree isn't alone. Lindsey's grandfather has found her by now. I take a deep breath. And another. I need to figure out what to do. What do I do? Call Lindsey's house. That's the first logical step. I grab the cordless phone off the coffee table. 

Lindsey goes berserk. 

"Don't call the cops!" she screams, rushing at me. She knocks me down. "They'll take me away! They'll put me in an institution! They'll leave me there to die!" Lindsey begins to cry. "I'm not sick. I'm not sick. I take my medication. My grandparents and Dr. Petrinski never believe me. I take it. I don't want to be crazy. I thought I could solve it myself. It doesn't seem to be working. I think…I think it's made me crazier than before. My grandparents and Dr. Petrinski can't figure out what's wrong. I don't understand either. If I take _more_, shouldn't I get better faster?" Lindsey's sobs grow louder. She starts pulling at her hair. 

I almost drop the phone. How did I not realize? The last time Lindsey was here, what was it she said? _Too much is better than too little. Better safe than sorry._ I should have listened. Lindsey was telling me. She's overmedicating herself! 

"I'm just calling your house," I tell her in a calm, soothing voice. At least it sounds calm and soothing in my head. I wonder if out loud it shakes. 

I dial Lindsey's number. The phone rings four times, then the machine answers. I knew they wouldn't be there. They've gone to the hospital. Oh, dear Lord, please don't let Dr. Dupree be dead. 

"We have to go to the hospital," I say to Lindsey, firmly. "That's where your grandparents have gone. We'll find them and…straighten this whole thing out." 

Lindsey nods, still sobbing, pulling at her hair. 

"Why is Dr. Dupree's station wagon parked on your front lawn?" calls a voice from the front porch. 

I whirl around and Kristy stands in the doorway, leaning into the house. Lindsey left the door open. This is all we need now! Kristy Thomas and her big mouth! 

Kristy's eyes widen. "What's wrong with Lindsey?" she asks, hurrying into the house. 

"Nothing! You need to leave!" 

Kristy gives me a brief dirty look, then turns her focus on Lindsey, crossing the living room toward her. "Lindsey, what's happened? What's wrong?" 

"I stabbed Sadie with the kitchen scissors!" Lindsey wails. 

Kristy's eyes bug out. "Oh, my gosh! Is she _dead_?" 

Lindsey wails louder. "Oh, no! Do you think she _is_?" 

"Thanks a lot, Kristy!" I snap. "Can you please leave? I'm taking care of things." 

Kristy's rubbing Lindsey's back. She glances at me a moment, then crosses toward me, swiftly. She snatches the phone off the couch, where I tossed it. "I'm calling Watson and Nannie," she announces and begins to dial. 

I grab the phone from her. "No! The last thing we need is Elizabeth over here mucking things up!" 

"Lindsey stabbed her grandmother, Shannon!" she yells at me. "And Mom isn't home. I'm calling Watson and Nannie. They'll know what to do." She attempts to take the phone back. 

I hold it high over my head. "No!" I shout. "No adults! Your family ruins everything! I'm taking Lindsey to the hospital! We don't need you or your family butting in!" 

Kristy's face turns bright red. "Can you stop thinking about yourself for one minute?" she demands. "_Lindsey stabbed her grandmother_. This isn't about you!" 

I look over at Lindsey. She's now sitting on the fireplace, holding herself, rocking back and forth, sobbing. She doesn't look like my friend, my lifelong friend. She is someone else. A hollowed out shell of a girl I used to know. 

I hand the phone to Kristy. "No adults," I repeat. 

Kristy frowns and dials. She waits for someone to answer. "Hello? Watson?...Yeah, it's me…there's been an accident…Lindsey's grandmother. She's at the hospital. I'm going over there with Shannon…I don't know if it's serious…I probably won't be back in time…just go without me…I'll tell them. Bye." Kristy hangs up. "Let's go," she says. 

Kristy ushers Lindsey out the front door while I lock up. Lindsey sags against her like she's broken. In the car, Kristy and Lindsey sit in the backseat together. Lindsey sobs on Kristy's shoulder. I back out of the garage past Dr. Dupree's station wagon, half-parked on the driveway, half-parked on the front lawn. I drive much too fast to downtown Stoneybrook. Now that we're on our way there's a sudden sense of urgency I did not feel before. Everything is sinking in. Lindsey stabbed her grandmother. She stabbed her with a pair of kitchen scissors. Lindsey is really and truly crazy. 

Kristy and I walk into the Stoneybrook General emergency room with Lindsey between us, our arms linked through hers, holding her up. I glance around, quickly. I don't see Lindsey's grandfather. We head straight for a nurse seated behind the desk. 

"We're looking for Sadie Dupree," I tell the nurse in the most adult voice I can muster. Inside, I feel sick. "This is her granddaughter." 

"Oh, yes," the nurse replies, flipping open a chart in front of her. "She came in about half an hour ago. She's in surgery." 

"Surgery!" Lindsey cries. 

"Is she okay?" Kristy asks. 

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you anything more." 

"Where's my grandfather?" Lindsey asks through her tears. 

"I'm sorry. I don't know. I just came off my lunch break," the nurse says. 

"He's out looking for you," Kristy tells Lindsey. "Let's sit down." Kristy begins pulling Lindsey away from the desk and into the waiting room. 

There are only three other people in the waiting room. We sit far away from them all. Lindsey hasn't stopped crying or pulling at her hair. Kristy tries to push her hands down and hold them, but Lindsey won't allow it. I watch them, forcing myself not to cry. What will happen to Lindsey? Will the police come and arrest her? Will she be sent to an institution? I bite my lip and rest my head against the wall. 

Twenty minutes later, Mister Dr. Dupree rushes through the front doors. He isn't wearing a coat or sweater. There's dried blood on his collared shirt, standing out bright and vivid against the starched white. His expression immediately switches from panic to relief when he sees Lindsey huddled on a waiting room chair, face buried in her knees. 

"I've been looking everywhere for you!" he exclaims, breathlessly, hurrying over. "I found Sadie's car. Are you okay?" He drops to his knees in front of Lindsey. 

Lindsey raises her head and bursts into new tears. "I killed Sadie!" she sobs. 

"No, you didn't," her grandfather replies, calmly. "She's going to be fine." He stands and sets a hand on her head. "Wait here," he instructs, then turns and strides over to the nurse at the desk. They speak briefly, then the nurse picks up the phone. A few minutes later, a man in green scrubs comes through a set of swinging doors and begins speaking to Mister Dr. Dupree. 

"Everything's going to be fine," Kristy tells Lindsey, stroking her hair. 

How can anything be fine ever again? 

Mister Dr. Dupree strides back to us. He lays his hand on Lindsey's head again. "Your grandmother's all right," he tells her, softly. "You missed puncturing a lung. The doctors are repairing the damage. She'll be out of surgery soon." 

Kristy and I breathe sighs of relief. Lindsey cries again. 

"Where…where did…she get stabbed?" I ask, hesitantly. 

"Above her right breast near her shoulder." 

"She'll really be okay?" I ask. 

"Yes," he replies. He looks down at Lindsey again. "Dr. Petrinski is on her way," he says. 

Dr. Petrinski! Is he nuts? "The woman who told you to cut off Lindsey's hair?" I exclaim. Maybe I blew it off before, but suddenly, the woman sounds like a quack just like Lindsey always claimed. 

Mister Dr. Dupree appears taken aback. "I didn't cut Lindsey's hair," he protests. 

Lindsey's head snaps up. She points a finger at him, accusingly. "Yes, you did," she growls. "You and Sadie cut it off with the kitchen scissors." 

Her grandfather grabs her hand and pushes it back down. "You cut your own hair and you know it," he says. 

Confusion washes over Lindsey's face. "But…I remember…Sadie said if I didn't quit messing with my hair, she'd cut it off." 

"She didn't mean it and she shouldn't have said it," he replies. 

Kristy and I look at each other. Kristy's eyes are wide and worried and I know mine are too. Lindsey cut her own hair? And she really believes her grandparents did it to her? What's _wrong_ with her? 

The doors behind the nurses station swing open again and Dr. Johanssen, whose daughter Kristy and I used to baby-sit, walks out in green scrubs. She crosses the room toward us. 

"Hello, Dr. Johanssen," Kristy and I greet her. 

Dr. Johanssen smiles slightly and murmurs, "Hello," then turns to Lindsey's grandfather. "I'm Dr. Johanssen," she says to him. "Your wife is out of surgery and I don't anticipate any complications. I am a bit confused, however, as to how this happened. She says she _fell_ on a pair of scissors." 

Mister Dr. Dupree nods. "Yes," he affirms, simply. "She was standing on the counter and I was talking to her, holding the scissors. She slipped and fell. She fell on the scissors." 

"She _fell_ on the scissors?" Dr. Johanssen repeats. 

"Yes." 

"Yes. She fell," Kristy pipes up. "I was there." 

Dr. Johanssen and Mister Dr. Dupree look surprised. 

I stare at Kristy, incredulously. Kristy is _lying_ to Dr. Johanssen? Right to her face? Helping to cover up what Lindsey has done? 

Dr. Johanssen eyes Kristy a bit suspiciously. I don't blame her. It's the most ridiculous story I've ever heard. Did the Duprees think it up during the car ride here? It's awfully dumb. Dr. Johanssen and Mister Dr. Dupree walk away, talking softly. She still looks suspicious. She probably thinks Mister Dr. Dupree stabbed his wife. I wonder if she'll call the police. 

"Why did you lie?" I ask Kristy. 

"Because Lindsey's my friend," she answers. 

"I was supposed to be your friend," I tell her, accusation creeping into my voice. 

"Lindsey's sick." 

I rise from my chair and cross the waiting room, getting away from Kristy. She's so two-faced. I know that Lindsey's sick. I want to protect her too. But Kristy never protected me. I meet Mister Dr. Dupree near the nurses station. He's walking with his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes. He looks very tired. He looks older than usual. 

"I need to tell you something," I inform him. 

He stops and slides his glasses back onto his face. "Yes, Shannon?" he replies. 

"At my house, Lindsey told me, she's been overmedicating herself. She thought it would make her better faster." 

Mister Dr. Dupree closes his eyes and places a hand to his forehead. "We've been wondering why the new medications haven't been working," he says, quietly. "We never thought of that. I can't believe she would…" 

"What's wrong with Lindsey?" I ask. It's a question I've always been too polite to ask. It's been easier to pretend it doesn't even exist. But now I need to know. 

"Please don't tell anyone," he says. "Lindsey has bipolar disorder. You probably know it as manic depression. It's a mood disorder and causes episodes of depression and mania." He sighs. "Lately, she's seemed to be in an almost constant state of mania. Paranoid and delusional. Overmedication explains that." 

"Is she going to get better?" 

"No. There's no cure. It can be controlled with the proper medication and there are other factors," he says and hesitates. "Lindsey's mother…my daughter…suffered from the same disorder. It's been very difficult going through this again." 

"I'm sorry," I say because what else can I say? I'm not certain I understand completely. Will Lindsey spend her entire life half-crazy, slipping in and out of manic episodes? 

A brunette woman breezes in through the front doors. She's early-thirties, dressed in tan slacks and a floral-print blouse, her hair twisted on top of her head. Somehow I know this is the infamous Dr. Petrinski, who may not be a quack after all. 

"George!" she cries, striding swiftly over to us. 

Mister Dr. Dupree steps away from me, heading toward her. "Thank you for coming, Kasey," he says and together they begin toward Lindsey, heads tilted toward each other. 

All I hear is Dr. Petrinski say, "George, I think it's time to seriously consider Oak Hills. Facilities are much better these days. I could get her a room tonight," and then they move too far away for me to hear anything at all. 

I hang back. Dr. Petrinski takes Lindsey into a secluded corner. She holds both of Lindsey's hands in hers and speaks very softly, much too softly for anyone to overhear. Lindsey's head hangs forward, limply. She's crying again. She cries like I cry lately. Never ceasing. 

We continue sitting in the waiting room. Outside, the day darkens. Finally, a nurse comes out and informs Mister Dr. Dupree that Dr. Dupree is awake and asking for him and Lindsey. She's been taken to a room on the second floor. 

"I don't want to see her," Lindsey says. "She's mad at me." 

"She isn't mad at you," her grandfather insists. 

"She understands, Lindsey," Dr. Petrinski assures her. 

"I'm not going." 

"Are you ready to go home and pack then?" Dr. Petrinski asks. "We'll go get your things, then we can come back here before leaving for New Britain." 

Lindsey nods. 

"I'll go with you, Lindsey," Kristy volunteers and slips her hand in Lindsey's. 

It's decided then. Mister Dr. Dupree leaves for the second floor to visit Dr. Dupree and Lindsey, Kristy, and Dr. Petrinski leave for Lindsey's house. Kristy and I promise not to tell anyone. We promise to keep what Lindsey's done and where she's gone a secret. I know I'll keep the secret. I bet Kristy won't. 

No one is home when I walk into the house. I thought maybe Maria would come back. Or Tiffany. Her shift must have ended by now. Why must they both stay so angry with me for so long? I'm having a bad time. They should be a little more sympathetic. The only person having a worse time than me right now is Lindsey. And Dr. Dupree. I wonder if I stabbed my mother if I would feel sorry about it later. Maybe not and that scares me. 

There's a message from Maria on the answering machine. She speaks very curtly, informing me that she's gone to the theater in Stamford with the Thomas-Brewers. They gave her Kristy's ticket. I scowl as I erase the message. Maria knows she isn't allowed around those people anymore. Why must she irk me so? She does it on purpose. 

I eat dinner alone. I make rice-a-roni and eat it straight out of the pot on the stove. I wonder if I should tell my parents that Mrs. Bryar quit. No. That's not necessary. She didn't _really_ quit. She'll be back. She's been our housekeeper for eight years. She can't simply walk away. 

I call Lindsey's house to see if they're still there. No one answers. I wonder when I'll see her again. I wonder who she'll be when she returns. 

It's almost ten o' clock when someone begins pounding on the front door. I'm stretched out on the couch, not reading my microbiology textbook, waiting for someone to come home. The pounding startles me and I leap off the couch and dash into the foyer. Maybe it's Maria. Maybe it's Tiffany. Maybe it's…no it's not him. 

I check through the peephole. 

It's Abby. 

I yank the door open. "_What_?" I demand, testily. 

"I'm so glad you're home!" Abby shouts. She looks panicked. Her sweatshirt's on backwards. "Mom's not home yet. You need to drive me to Mary Anne's house. She just called. She said it's an emergency!" 

"What?" I ask. "Mary Anne?" What could Kristy's little errand girl possibly need from us? 

"She's hysterical! She already tried calling the Brewers and the McGills and the Sheas and the Blumes! Nobody's home! She said she needs someone right away! Come on!" Abby tugs on my arm. 

I grab my purse and we're out the door. 


	48. Chapter 48

We fly around the corner of Burnt Hill Road like the car has wings, lifting us up and sailing us forward. Beside me, Abby taps her hands on the dash, whispering, "faster faster faster". I can't go any faster. It's dark and late and the road is ill-lit. And I'm still wondering if there is anything to this at all, if Mary Anne's not simply throwing some kind of fit. I don't know her well anymore. She's become a little bizarre. 

"Are you sure she's not simply fighting with her stepmom again? Or Stacey McGill?" I ask Abby. 

Abby shakes her head. "You didn't hear her voice. Something's _wrong_." 

I'm not quite convinced. 

"That's Mary Anne's house!" Abby exclaims, pointing to the house straight ahead, as if I've forgotten where Mary Anne lives. 

We pull into the driveway and screech to a halt. The neighborhood is silent and dark. All except Mary Anne's house. Every light burns in every window, upstairs and down. The porch lights and lights over the garage are also turned on, bathing part of the yard in a shadowy luminance. I begin to feel uneasy. There's something strange and eerie in the air. 

Abby and I hop out of the car and slam the doors. At the sound, the front door flings open and Mary Anne streaks out onto the porch and down the steps, illuminated in the glow of the lights. Her hair is a mess, her make-up running, the front of her skirt and blouse drenched with blood. 

"Mr. Marshall tried to rape me!" she shrieks, clenching her fists and dropping to her knees. 

Abby and I freeze halfway across the lawn. We stare at Mary Anne. She collapses forward onto her elbows, shaking, her head bobbing up and down. I realize what's happening. She's hyperventilating. Abby springs alive first, rushing to Mary Anne, and I follow, sliding across the wet grass in my tennis shoes. We reach Mary Anne and drop beside her. 

"She's hyperventilating!" I cry. "We need a paper bag!" 

"No! You're not supposed to do that anymore! I saw this happen to someone once. We need to calm her down," Abby replies. 

"Let's take her inside before the neighbors come out," I suggest. 

Abby gives me a strange look. I don't know why I said that. I don't know what I'm thinking. 

"Come on, Mary Anne, stand up," Abby urges, grabbing Mary Anne under the arms. She pulls Mary Anne gently to her feet. Mary Anne's still breathing fast and deep. We support her weight and carry her up the steps and onto the porch, the toes of her black Mary Janes dragging across the cement. We take her into the living room, but when we reach the doorway, we see several streaks of blood on the couch, red against the pale blue, and on the carpet lies discarded a pair of ripped white cotton panties with tiny yellow flowers. 

Oh, dear Lord, what happened here? 

We deposit Mary Anne gently into an armchair. Abby sits on an arm, leaning over Mary Anne, rubbing her back and whispering in her ear. I stand beside them, awkwardly, watching, not knowing what to do. Mary Anne's breathing slows and falls into a regular pattern, in and out, in and out, right on pace. 

She starts to cry. 

"Where are your dad and stepmom?" I ask, lowering onto my knees beside the armchair. 

"Not here," Mary Anne gasps. "They won't be home tonight." 

"Your grandma? We'll call your grandma!" I suggest and Abby nods. 

"Out of town. Atlantic City. With her church group." 

Abby and I look at one another at a loss. What are we supposed to do now? 

"Do you want to tell us about it?" Abby asks, softly. 

Mary Anne shakes her head, but then whispers, "I was baby-sitting for the Marshalls." 

"Yes?" Abby prods. 

"I was baby-sitting for the Marshalls," Mary Anne repeats, staring at her knees, hair hanging forward, blocking her face. "I was baby-sitting for the Marshalls," she says again and I wonder if she'll ever get past this point or if she will be stuck there forever, like a needle caught in a groove on a record, scratching and repeating. "I was baby-sitting for the Marshalls and Mr. Marshall said he'd drive me home. We pulled into the driveway and all the lights were out. He said, 'late night for your parents?" and I said, 'they're away.' Mr. Marshall said, 'let me walk you to the door. Everything is dark. I want to make sure you are safe.' I said, 'it's okay. I'll be fine,' and Mr. Marshall said, 'no, let me walk you to the door.' So, I did. 

We walked onto the porch and I unlocked the door. Mr. Marshall started coughing. Very loud. Hacking. He pounded on his chest. I said, 'come in, I'll get you a glass of water.' He followed me into the house. I went for the water and when I came back, Mr. Marshall was standing under the archway to the living room. I reached out my arm to give him the water. He grabbed my wrist and I dropped the water. It shattered on the floorboards and I screamed. Mr. Marshall grabbed my other wrist and squeezed very tight. I thought he would break me. He shoved me into the living room and pushed me onto the couch. I screamed, 'Stop!' and he said, 'you invited me in, didn't you?' 

He pinned me down on the couch underneath him. He started kissing my neck and touching me all over. He kept saying, 'I know this is what you want. I know you've always wanted it. Relax, Mary Anne. I'll take care of you.' I was yelling and struggling, but he held me down. I couldn't fight him. He tore off my panties and undid his pants. He shoved my legs apart. I knew what was coming. I don't know exactly how it happened. I grabbed a coaster and smashed him in the face. I think I broke his nose. He screamed and blood gushed out. It just poured out all over me. Mr. Marshall pulled up his pants and ran out. He left me on the couch covered in his blood." 

Mary Anne's shoulders shake as she begins to cry. 

"Oh, Mary Anne," Abby gasps and wraps her arms around Mary Anne. 

I take Mary Anne's hand. It's limp in my own. I listen to her sobs. I listen and I have no answers. 

Abby looks down at me from over Mary Anne's head. "We need to call the police," she says, firmly. 

Mary Anne's head snaps up. "No police!" she shouts. "No police!" 

"Mr. Marshall is a rapist," Abby replies. "We need to call the police." 

"No police! No! I don't want anyone to know!" Mary Anne protests, her voice choking on its panic. "I don't want anyone to know! Everyone will blame me!" 

I tighten my grip on her hand. "No one will blame you, Mary Anne," I assure her. "You did nothing wrong." 

"I invited him in!" Mary Anne yells. "He's right! I invited him in! I let him in the house! Everyone will know! Everyone will say it's what I wanted!" 

Abby pushes Mary Anne's hair back from her face. She shakes her head. "No. No, Mary Anne. You didn't ask for this. You asked him in for water. He had no right to do this. It's not your fault." 

I nod. "That's right, Mary Anne. You are not to blame." 

"But everyone will know!" Mary Anne shrieks. She jumps up out of the armchair, knocking her head against Abby's chin. Mary Anne glances down, eyes widening, as if seeing herself for the first time. "I have to get him off me!" she screams and dashes out of the room. 

Abby and I leap to our feet and pursue her. Across the foyer and up the stairs. Mary Anne's feet pound heavy on the stairs. Abby and I thunder behind her. Mary Anne runs into the bathroom and turns on the shower. For a moment, I think she will jump right in, clothes and all, wash the blood right down the drain. But Mary Anne lifts her blouse over her head. She tosses it to me. 

"Wash it out! Wash it out!" she shouts and tears off her skirt. She throws that to me, too. "Wash it out!" she repeats. 

Abby and I stand crowded in the doorway, watching Mary Anne strip. Blood seeped through her blouse and now stains her stomach and bra. The bra flies through the air and I catch it. I'm supposed to wash it out, too. Now Mary Anne stands before us, stark naked, except for her white socks and Mary Janes. She doesn't bother with them. They don't need to be washed out. She climbs into the shower. She climbs in and sits on the tile, straight beneath the spray. Somehow, I know exactly what she wants and somehow, it makes perfect sense. 

"Wash her out!" I command, giving Abby a shove. 

Abby hesitates, then rushes over to the shower. She grabs a bottle of dark red shampoo off the shelf. It matches the blood on Mary Anne's clothes. Abby squeezes the shampoo onto Mary Anne's head. I fill the sink with water. Yes, somehow, this makes perfect sense. This is exactly what we should do. Right? Right? 

I check Mary Anne's skirt. There's a large spot of blood on the front. The skirt is torn on one side. Is it mendeable? Does it matter? I plunge the skirt into the water and grab a bar of soap out of the dish. It's light green. It smells like melon. I scrub the skirt with it. I scrub hard. The water becomes marbled with pink, spreading out and taking over. I scrub harder and harder. The blood comes out. It washes out. 

"This is insane!" Abby exclaims. She's lathering Mary Anne's hair. Mary Anne's head isn't visible beneath the bubbles. The shampoo smells like ripe raspberries. The smell drifts through the bathroom. It dominates the room. "We're washing the evidence away!" Abby cries. "We need to call the police! We'll ask for Sergeant Johnson!" 

"No police!" Mary Anne shouts. She's drawn her knees to her chest. She's still wearing her socks and shoes. 

"I'll call my mother then," Abby says. "She's probably home by now. I'll call her and she'll come over. She'll know what to do." 

"I don't want your mother!" 

"We'll call Kristy's house then. Don't you want Kristy? You called her first. We'll get Kristy and Elizabeth." 

"No!" Mary Anne cries. 

"No Kristy!" I yell. "No Kristy and no Elizabeth!" 

Abby whirls around. Her hands are covered in soap suds. Her sweatshirt is wet. So is her hair. "This isn't about you, Shannon! Can't you stop being mad for one minute? Think of someone else! Think of Mary Anne!" 

I scowl at her and wring out the skirt. I toss it onto the hamper. Then I drain the sink. I wait for it to drain before filling it with fresh water. Fresh water, clean water. I'll wash it all away. 

"No Kristy. No Elizabeth," I repeat. 

"I don't want them to know!" Mary Anne wails. 

"We'll call the McGills then," Abby says. She detaches the showerhead and moves it around Mary Anne's head, washing out the shampoo. "Maybe they're home now. We'll get Mrs. McGill to come over. Mrs. McGill will know what to do, Mary Anne. She'll help." 

"No!" 

"Listen to her!" I insist. "She doesn't want anyone else. No adults! We don't need any adults!" 

"An adult is exactly what we need!" Abby snaps. "This is serious, Shannon!" She glares at me, then focuses back on Mary Anne. "Okay, you don't want Stacey or her mom. We'll call the Sheas. We'll call the Blumes. You called them. You must have wanted Katie and Grace. I'll call them back." 

Mary Anne shakes her head. "What will they think?" she sobs. I didn't notice her tears beneath the shower spray. "I don't want them anymore. I decided I didn't want them. That's why I hung up on Mrs. Blume!" 

"You hung up on Mrs. Blume?" Abby exclaims. "Grace and her parents are _home_? You found an adult and hung up the phone?" 

"She would call the police! I realized when I heard her voice! She'd call the police! Everyone would know! So, I hung up! I hung up and called you! I knew you would help me, Abby." Mary Anne yanks on Abby's arm, pulling Abby down to eye level. "I knew you would help me. That's why I called you. That's why I didn't call Julie or Emily first. They'd tell their narc parents. They're all narcs. The Blumes, the Sterns, the Bernsteins. They're all in the same narcing network. They would tell! Everyone would know!" 

Abby pulls free of Mary Anne's grip and stands. She turns to me and steps forward. "Mary Anne is obviously confused. I don't even _know_ what she's talking about now. I'm calling my mom. And if I don't find my mom – " Abby points a finger at me, "I will _not_ call the Brewers, but I will call Mrs. McGill. I'm finding an adult. This is serious." Abby walks out of the room. 

"No!" Mary Anne screams, scrambling to her feet. She chases after Abby. She chases after Abby in only her socks and Mary Janes. 

I drop the blouse I'm rinsing out. I follow them. Abby's racing down the stairs. Mary Anne streaks down the hallway, nearing the staircase. Just as she reaches the landing, her cat, Tigger, shoots out of nowhere. Mary Anne trips and falls forward, diving down the stairs. She smacks into the banister and tumbles forward. 

"Mary Anne!" Abby and I shriek. 

I run down the stairs. Abby runs back up. We meet halfway. 

I crouch down beside Mary Anne, who's stretched sideways across a step. "Are you okay?" I ask her, gently, then look up to glare at Abby. "See what you did?" I demand. 

Abby scowls. "This isn't my fault!" she protests. "Come on, Mary Anne, sit up." 

Mary Anne struggles into a sitting position. She holds her hand over her left eye. 

"Let me see," I say, pushing her hand away. I study the side of her face. "That'll leave a bruise," I remark. 

Mary Anne cries. 

"See how you've upset her?" I ask Abby and hold out a hand to Mary Anne. "See what happens when you try to involve adults? Everything gets mucked up." I help Mary Anne to her feet. 

Abby stares at me. "Are you serious?" she gasps. "What's _wrong_ with you? We can't just pretend this didn't happen! Mr. Marshall did this on purpose! He planned it out! He meant to rape Mary Anne! Right in her own living room!" 

"Mary Anne doesn't want anyone to know. We need to respect that decision, Abby," I reply and start up the stairs, an arm around Mary Anne. 

"_Fine_," Abby says, tightly. "I'm good at covering up crimes." 

"Yeah, you are," I agree, nastily. 

In Mary Anne's bedroom, I take off her wet socks and shoes. Abby goes through the dresser drawers and brings over clean panties and a pair of flannel pajamas. Red and green plaid. Christmas pajamas. So festive. Abby and I dress Mary Anne, then I brush her hair. Mary Anne cries. Abby and I don't speak. 

Mary Anne huddles in a corner on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, leaning back against the wall. She bangs her head a couple times. 

"She's going to hurt herself," Abby says. 

"You aren't helping," I snap. 

Abby is quiet. 

"This is all my fault," Mary Anne whispers. 

"It isn't. It isn't at all," I reply. 

"You shouldn't feel ashamed," Abby tells her. 

"I am ashamed," Mary Anne says. "I am a terrible person. I think I'm being punished. I'm being punished for how I've treated everyone. I string Pete along. I need to let him go. I'm being punished." 

Abby looks over at me, but I ignore her. 

"You aren't being punished, Mary Anne," I assure her. 

"No one deserves this," Abby adds. 

Mary Anne shakes her head. "I think I might. Don't tell anyone. Don't tell anyone at all. My dad would be so upset. What if he blamed me? Sharon would be mad, too. She'd blame me. That's why I didn't call her. She can't know." 

I knit my brow together. "Isn't Sharon out of town?" I ask, perplexed. 

"No. She left. She left two days ago. She's staying at her parents' house. We aren't her family anymore. She wants Jeff and Dawn. I'm not Dawn. Sharon can't forgive that. I'm not Dawn." Mary Anne closes her eyes and rolls her head to the side. "This would never happen to Dawn. Dawn's stronger than me. She never would have invited him in. She would know better. And Dawn could fight. She can fight back. She head butted a boy once. So I hear." 

I have no idea what she's talking about. 

Neither does Abby. She looks as confused as I do. We can only repeat all we've said before. _This isn't your fault. No one will blame you. No one will be mad. You fought back. You are strong._ Over and over we repeat the words. We repeat them until Mary Anne falls asleep. I cover her with a blanket and brush the damp hair away from her face. Tigger appears from wherever he's been hiding. He jumps onto the bed and kneads Mary Anne's blanket, then curls up beside her stomach. 

"I need to call home," Abby whispers. 

I check my watch. When did it become two o' clock? Is anyone even worried about me? Abby and I walk downstairs into the kitchen. Abby lifts the phone off the hook. 

"Don't tell," I remind her, as she begins to dial. 

Abby narrows her eyes and turns away. "Hello? Mom? I'm sorry to wake you…you were worried?...I'm sorry…I'm at Mary Anne's. We fell asleep…Yeah, I'll see you in the morning…okay…bye." Abby replaces the phone on the hook, then lifts it again and holds it out to me. 

I shake my head. There's no one I need to call. 

Abby starts to hang up again. Her eyes fall on a list beside the telephone, secured to a bulletin board. A list of phone numbers. She holds out a finger and scans down. Her finger stops at _The Marshalls_. Abby bangs out the number. 

"What are you doing?" I screech, trying to tear the phone away. 

Abby shoves me back. I hear the phone ring. I lunge forward again, but Abby turns away. 

"Hello?" she says into the receiver. "Mrs. Marshall?...yes, I know it's late…who is this?...no one…I just called to tell you that your husband will get more than a broken nose the next time he tries to rape the baby-sitter!" 

Abby slams the phone down. 

I can barely control myself. "You promised not to tell!" I cry, absolutely furious. "You promised no adults! Don't you care about what Mary Anne wants? Don't you care about her at all?" 

"Yes, but do you?" 

Abby turns and stalks out of the kitchen. 


	49. Chapter 49

Monday morning, I'm bent over the drinking fountain outside the administration building, taking a sip of cool water when I hear a wistful, dramatic sigh. I raise my eyes, still drinking, and see Greer Carson leaning back against the wall, hugging her bag, and looking very tragic. I lower my eyes again and hope she doesn't see me roll them. 

"Hello, Greer," I greet her, straightening up and wiping a bead of water off my upper lip. 

Greer sighs again. "I'm in love," she announces. 

I roll my eyes and start to walk away. I really don't have time for this. Not after the weekend I just had. Greer's in love every other week. I have important concerns on my mind. 

"Why are you walking away?" Greer calls out, catching up to me. "I want to tell you about him! His name's Jacob and he's _so_ cute. He lives on my brother's floor at Yale. He's an engineering major…or something. Anyway, he has this kind of feathery strawberry blonde hair and these dark brown eyes. It's like looking into pools of melted chocolate. And – " 

"You know, Greer," I cut her off, "I'm thrilled that you got laid this weekend, but I really don't have time for this." 

"I never said I slept with him," Greer hisses. "Jeez, Shannon, do you have to be so nasty about it? I just wanted to tell you about my weekend. I thought you might care." 

I stop outside my European history classroom and turn to Greer. "You know, I had a horrible weekend," I inform her. 

"How am I supposed to know that?" 

"Right, how are you? Because you took off to New Haven for the weekend to screw drunken frat boys. Thanks a lot for that, Greer." 

Greer sucks in her breath. "Jeez, Shannon, I'm _so_ sorry for having a life that doesn't include you. I've been holding your hand for the last week! I supported you and listened and I put up with your stupid schemes. You were nothing but nasty to me before and you're nothing but nasty to me now. How long can you mope around feeling sorry for yourself? Get over yourself!" Greer whirls around and stomps off. 

I follow after her, even though the first bell's rung and we should be heading to class. I push her into a corner near the math wing. 

"You think you're such a great friend?" I demand, placing my hands on my hips. "Well, you're not. You wanted Mick the entire time I was dating him and then you couldn't wait to jump him the minute he humiliated me with tulips and a break-up note!" 

"I never would have gone after him if you hadn't been so mean to me! I apologized and apologized for what I said about you being a prude. I knew he was off-limits. But you let everything drag on. You refused to even consider my apology. That's your problem, Shannon. You always have to be right. You always have to be in control. You want everyone to do what you want and if they don't, then screw them. You don't listen to anything you don't want to hear. You're probably not even listening right now." Greer slides past me and rushes down the hall, her bag swinging as she runs. She turns and disappears down the foreign language wing. 

I never should have considered forgiving her. What was I thinking? Greer Carson is only a friend when it's convenient for her. 

I don't see Greer again until lunch period. Even though I'm still furious with her for her insensitivity, I pull out a chair at her table and slide in across from her and Sally. I could eat alone, but I won't give Greer the satisfaction. 

"So, what was so awful about your weekend?" Greer asks the moment I sit down. "You weren't driving around the Birch Street apartments for two days were you?" 

I narrow my eyes as I screw off the top of my bottled apple juice. I take a long sip, still glaring. I'm glad my life is such a great source of entertainment for Greer. 

"God, Starshine!" Sally exclaims, looking at me over her sandwich. "Are you still not eating?" 

I shrug and take another sip. "This is all I want." 

Greer and Sally exchange a look, then Greer returns her focus to me. She points at me with her granola bar. "If you don't start eating, I'm going to tell Dr. Patek that you're anorexic." 

"Oh, yes, Greer, that will do a lot of good," I reply, sarcastically. 

"You're going to faint again," Sally tells me. 

"Yeah, Sally told me what happened at her house," Greer says. 

"Thanks so much, Sally!" I cry. "Did you tell her _everything_?" 

"No." 

Greer leans forward. "What more was there?" she wants to know. 

I tilt back in my chair and fold my arms. "I don't even like you, Greer Carson, so why should I tell you?" 

"Because there's no one else willing to listen," Greer snaps. 

I clamp my mouth shut and refuse to speak. I refuse to look at Greer. 

Sally throws her sandwich down. "This is getting ridiculous," she says and turns to Greer. "She's still stalking that guy. She went to his school and tracked him down." 

"Thanks, Sally!" I shout. "You're just as bad as Kristy!" 

"I'll take that as a compliment, thank you. Right now, I'm much more fond of Kat than I am of you." 

I open my mouth to shoot back a biting remark, but Greer holds her hands up in a time-out gesture. "Stop! I want to know what happened at the school," she says, firmly. 

I still refuse to speak to her. 

So, Sally and Greer pretend I'm not here. They make me invisible. They carry on a conversation about me, in front of me, and do not acknowledge me. 

"She's gotten out of control," Greer says to Sally. "This is just dumb." 

"She doesn't listen," Sally says. 

"She wasn't always like this," Greer assures her. "She used to care about other people. Or at least I thought she did." 

"You know I can hear you," I interrupt. 

Sally turns to look at me, her expression blank. "We know," she replies, then goes back to discussing me with Greer. 

Meg Jardin comes to our table. She stops beside it, resting her hands on the end. She's becoming a pest. 

"Is it true about Lindsey?" she asks, completely disregarding that there's a conversation in progress. How rude. "That she has mono?" 

Greer nods. "Yeah, her grandfather called my house and told my mom. She won't be back until after Christmas vacation." 

So, this is the lie? The lie we're telling to cover for Lindsey? It's nice that someone informed me! Did they? I've been very busy averting crises. I've not had time to return phone calls or read the messages Maria taped to my door. 

"Can we visit her?" Meg asks. 

"What do you care?" I snap. "You aren't her friend anymore." 

Meg looks hurt. "I don't want Lindsey to be sick," she says. 

"Well, she is sick. Where were you?" 

"You've gotten really mean, Shan," Meg tells me. "You know who you sound like?" 

"No, who do I sound like?" I ask, mockingly. 

"Like your mother." 

Meg turns and walks away. 

My jaw drops. The nerve of her! 

"Can you believe that?" I demand. 

Sally regards me, coolly, for a moment then turns back to Greer. "Does Lindsey really have mono?" she asks. "Did she hit someone else with a bat?" 

"Of course she has mono!" Greer insists. "Her grandparents would never lie! They're religious!" 

"We should send her flowers." 

"Why don't you send her orchids?" I suggest, nastily. 

"Why don't you shut up?" Sally snaps. 

Greer and Sally resume discussing Lindsey. They don't speak to me or about me again. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

After school, I drive to the A&P and purchase a bottle of apple-scented shampoo, plus a bottle of conditioner. Then I drive to Mary Anne's house. I haven't spoken to her since yesterday morning. Abby and I left her house around eleven when her dad came home from his business trip. He seemed surprised to find Abby and me there. We didn't tell him anything. We acted completely normal. We had scrubbed away any evidence that something had gone terribly wrong the night before. Mary Anne stood in the doorway and waved as we backed down the drive. She looked a lot like Lindsey the last time I saw her. Haunted and hollow. 

I ring the bell at Mary Anne's house. Tigger's stretched out on the front porch having found a tiny patch of sun on this mostly gray day. He rolls onto his side and stares up at me, spreading his paws and toes. It must be nice to be a cat. Tigger has no problems. Not like me. Not like Mary Anne. 

Mary Anne opens the door. She's wearing those hideous green plaid pants of hers, the ones she wore the night we searched for Tiffany. Her hair is draped partway over the left side of her face, attempting to hide the bruise I know is there. 

"Hi, Mary Anne," I say. I hold out the shampoo and conditioner. "I brought you something." I figured she'd never want to smell ripe raspberries again. 

"Oh, thanks," she says and takes the bottles. She looks tired, but more or less like Mary Anne - regular, every day Mary Anne. It seems like she should be altered on the outside. It should be obvious that something has changed her forever. There should be more to it than a bruise that will fade. I am broken down, too, and it shows on me. 

"Can I come in?" I ask. 

"I guess," Mary Anne answers and holds open the door. 

Tigger darts in before me as I step over the threshold. Mary Anne leads me through the foyer past the living room. She doesn't pause near its doorway. She walks straight past as if it does not exist, as if nothing ever existed there. Maybe that's how it will always be. That room, that couch, that entire space will never again exist for Mary Anne. Mary Anne leads me up the stairs, wordlessly, and into her bedroom. I sit down on Mary Anne's bed and Mary Anne settles into her vinyl desk chair. She sets the shampoo and conditioner on the desk. 

"How are you feeling?" I ask her. 

Mary Anne shrugs. 

"Did you go to school?" 

Mary Anne nods. "Yes. I stayed home this morning, but then I decided I didn't want to be alone. Everyone stared at me. It was like they knew." 

"They were probably staring at your bruise," I point out. 

"Yes, but it's the same thing." 

I scoot back on the bed, so I'm against the wall. "Have you heard from…you know?" I ask. 

Mary Anne shakes her head. 

I don't know if I should be annoyed or relieved. I expected Mrs. Marshall to call. Maybe she decided Abby's call was a prank. Good. Good. That's what Mary Anne wanted. 

"Do you want to talk about it some more?" 

Mary Anne shakes her head again. "I don't want to discuss it ever again," she says. "I want it to go away. I want it to have never happened. Let's not talk about it. Let's not think about it." 

I wonder if this is right. 

"All right, Mary Anne," I reply, nodding. "If that's what you want. We'll pretend it never happened." 

"That's what I want." 

"All right." 

Mary Anne swivels slightly in her chair using her right foot. Back and forth. Back and forth. "I'm supposed to go to Sharon's parents' house for dinner. They want us to reconcile. That's why I'm wearing these pants. Sharon's mom bought them for me. I hate them, but Sharon makes me wear them anyway. I wear them every time I see her parents." Mary Anne studies her right thumbnail, very intently. "I don't want to go over there. I think if Sharon sees me, she'll know. She'll know what's happened and she'll blame me. It's like I'm marked now. Not just by the bruise. That will go away. I'm marked forever. It's like I'm tainted." 

"You shouldn't be ashamed, Mary Anne," I tell her. "You did nothing wrong. You did nothing to deserve this." 

"That doesn't help how I feel." 

I watch Mary Anne. She'll feel better in a few days. Abby and I did exactly as she asked. This is what she wanted. We've washed it out. Out and away. In a few days, Mary Anne will realize this was not her fault. She'll realize and she'll feel better. 

"I broke up with Pete," Mary Anne says suddenly. "I mean, we broke up last spring, but sometimes we're still together. Sort of. He's wanted me back since I broke it off. I've strung him along, always changing my mind. I think I'm a tease. I think Mr. Marshall knew that. I told Pete, it's really over. For good, for sure. I told him to move on. I let him go." 

"Pete and Mr. Marshall have nothing to do with each other," I say. How many times must I tell her? This is not her fault. She doesn't listen. 

Mary Anne shrugs. 

We're silent for awhile and it doesn't appear like Mary Anne intends to speak again, so I tell her, "I wish Wes wanted me back the way Pete wants you." 

"You're probably better off." 

"No, I'm not," I answer. I cross my legs, staring down at the toes of my loafers. "I love him, even if he doesn't believe I do. I need him. I miss him so much. I miss everything about him. I miss how he'd check up on me, worrying about me, and I miss how he made me feel. I want him back, but you know what, Mary Anne? I don't think I'll ever get him back. I keep waiting, but I don't think he's coming back." 

"I'm sorry." 

"You're the only one then." 

Mary Anne finally stops moving the chair. She sits still. She stares at me. It's odd. Blank. 

"Can you leave now?" she asks me. 

"What?" I reply, confused. 

"I'm sorry, but can you leave now?" Mary Anne repeats. "I'd like to be alone. I'd like to lie down. And can you not come back? I appreciate what you did for me. You and Abby. But I'd like to not see either of you for awhile. I'm sorry. I hope you understand." 

I don't. I don't understand at all. I slide off the bed and rise to my feet, absolutely mystified. I'm not sure if I _should_ understand or if I should be offended. I don't know, so I simply nod and say goodbye. Mary Anne doesn't walk me out. I guess it doesn't matter. 

I drive home. I wish I could talk to someone about this. I promised Mary Anne though. I won't break my promise. Not like other people. And I can't talk to Abby. Abby will only want to tell her mother or Elizabeth or some other adult who doesn't need to be involved. 

When I pull into my driveway, Abby's across the street in her front yard with Claudia and Erica. They wave, but I don't wave back. I pretend I don't see them. What's Abby doing with Claudia anyway? Probably thinking of new ways to steal money from her sister. Abby's such a hypocrite. And she doesn't even know it. 

"Hey, Shannon!" Abby bellows when I climb out of the car. 

I ignore her. 

"Hey, Shannon!" Abby shouts again. "Stop pretending you can't hear me! Come over here! I want you to hear this!" 

Scowling, I stalk across the street. Even though Claudia and Erica are waving and smiling, I don't acknowledge either. I don't care that they didn't rat me out to an adult, that they were smart enough to realize my relationship with Wes was my own business. I just don't care. 

"_What_?" I ask with a sigh. 

Abby elbows Erica in the ribs. "You tell her," Abby orders. 

"Why?" 

"Because you told me. You're the one with the whole story." 

I lose my patience. "What is it?" I demand. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Marshall are getting divorced!" Claudia exclaims. 

I blink. 

"What?" I ask, unsure if I heard correctly. 

Abby gives me a meaningful look, then nudges Erica again. "Tell her the story." 

"Okay," Erica begins. "So, I heard this from Julie, but it's totally true! I know because Emily confirmed it. Or at least she grunted in confirmation. Anyway, so Julie and Emily live on the same street as the Marshalls. So, Saturday night…or really, Sunday morning, I guess, the entire street awakes to screaming. It's like two-thirty in the morning. Everyone runs to their windows and sees Mrs. Marshall tossing all of Mr. Marshall's things out on the front lawn. She's ranting and raving and cursing. Everyone comes out of their houses and stands on the sidewalk, watching. Mrs. Marshall throws everything onto the lawn – his clothes, his books, just everything, and Mr. Marshall just stands there with this huge bandage on his nose – I don't know why – and he's pleading with her for one more chance. And Mrs. Marshall's ranting at him and shrieks that she's tired of his perversions and fetishes and then she throws a box of magazines at him and they spill out all over the lawn, but it's too dark for anyone to see what they are exactly. But Julie and Emily's parents think the Marshalls are swingers and into kinky S&M games with Chinese hookers. Honestly though, I think that's just something Julie's mom made up and the rest are spreading around. And that's the end of the story." Erica takes a long breath. 

"Is this true?" I ask Abby, skeptically. 

"Apparently," Abby says and gives me another meaningful look. 

I'm really not sure what to think. So, Mrs. Marshall _did_ believe Abby's phone call. But…she believed it and never called to check on Mary Anne? That's weird. But maybe for the best. Mary Anne doesn't want any adults involved after all. 

"Well, we have to go tell Kristy!" Claudia announces and waves as she and Erica start down the street. 

When they're gone, Abby opens her mouth. "So, what do – " 

I interrupt her. "I'm still not speaking to you," I say and turn and jog back across the street. 

When I enter my house, I hear the television blaring in the living room. I cross the foyer to the doorway and see Maria sitting on the couch, watching some ancient sitcom and drinking a soda. 

"Turn that down, Maria!" I shout over the noise of the television. 

Surprisingly, Maria obeys. 

I walk through the living room on my way toward the kitchen and Maria turns around on the couch, resting her elbows on its back, staring at me. 

"You missed Mrs. Bryar," she informs me. 

I spin around. "Mrs. Bryar came back!" I exclaim. I knew she didn't really quit. How could she? 

"Yeah," Maria says. "She came to return her key. She also brought me cream cheese walnut brownies and I've hidden them in my bedroom and you can't have any." 

My heart sinks. Mrs. Bryar returned her key? 

"And also," Maria continues, "Mrs. Bryar wanted me to remind you to mail her her check. Or she said she can pick it up tomorrow." 

My heart is no longer sinking. Instead, my blood is boiling. Is that all Mrs. Bryar cares about? Her _check_? I certainly hope she doesn't expect a Christmas bonus this year! 

"And also," Maria says, "since this is the last check you're ever going to write out to her, do you think you could spell her first name correctly? She hasn't really complained, but she has mentioned it a couple times. I think it annoys her. Her name doesn't have an _i_." 

I glare at Maria and whirl around, stomping out of the living room and up the stairs. I have much more pressing concerns on my mind than how Mrs. Bryar prefers to spell her first name! 

Halfway up the stairs, I turn around and run back down. I hurry into the study and retrieve my checkbook and a stamp and envelope from the desk. I write out Mrs. Bryar's final check. _Good riddance_, I think as I write it. I make sure to spell her first name with two _i_'s then add an _i_ to "Bryar" for good measure. That will show her. 


	50. Chapter 50

Sally and my teachers' patience have worn thin, so Wednesday after school I drive straight to the Stoneybrook Public library. The only class I'm still holding onto an A in is microbiology and that's just barely. One more missed assignment and that too will be gone. All my other classes, I'm not even sure where I stand. I don't really care, but with the threat of social services looming, I should put on appearances. I should pretend to care. 

I hole up in a corner of the library with a stack of late homework. I can't do any of the current assignments because I don't understand them. I have to work my way through from the beginning and I have to do it by the end of next week. Next Friday is the last day of school before Christmas vacation. I'm uncertain how much I can still make up after that. 

It's four-thirty and I'm finishing a review sheet for geology when someone calls my name. Calls it out loud and clear right in the middle of the library. I glance up and it's Claudia. Her mother's the head librarian, so I guess Claudia doesn't care about following the rules. That wouldn't be a first. 

"Hey, Shannon!" Claudia greets me, brightly, stopping at my table. "Doing homework? Same old Shannon!" She grins. 

"I have a lot to catch up on. I can't really talk," I say and resume my work. 

Claudia apparently doesn't listen. "Hey, is it true that you tried to smash Lauren's head in a door?" she asks. 

I sigh and glance up again. "Yes," I say, exasperated. 

Claudia laughs. "That's awesome! I thought she was exaggerating." 

"I'm thrilled to hear you and your friends are still gossiping about me." 

"We aren't gossiping about you," Claudia protests. She flips her long black braid over her shoulder. It's tied with a million gold and red ribbons. "I heard you've become kind of a grouch," Claudia says. She says it very lightly, like we're having a regular conversation. 

"Maybe if people would leave me alone, I wouldn't be such a grouch," I snap. 

"Well, with an attitude like that you won't have to worry about people bothering you much longer," Claudia says, just as lightly as before. "I am sorry about what happened to you. It sucks. Erica and I tried to stay out of it. Hey, your business is your business. You have to make mistakes to learn from them." 

Oh, the wisdom of Claudia Kishi the mail room girl. 

"Yes, I've heard all about your mistakes and how you learned from them," I say and turn my review sheet to the other side. 

"Yeah, Abby told me that she told you. But I wouldn't be such a know-it-all about it. You really don't know everything about me. And gee, Shannon, at least I'm not pouting and snapping at people who are just trying to be friendly. What good would that do me? What good does that do you?" 

I ignore her and keep writing. 

"Erica and I didn't know if we should tell you or not," Claudia says, still pretending that I'm interested in having a conversation with her. "but I think I should. You should know. There's this rumor going around SHS about a high school girl who is sleeping with a teacher." 

I drop my pencil. Oh, dear Lord. I stare up at Claudia, dumbstruck. 

"No names have been mentioned and Erica doesn't think the rumor's made it around very far. She's heard a couple versions. One is that it's a SHS girl sleeping with a SHS teacher. The other is that it's a SHS girl sleeping with a SMS teacher. Erica says most people think the girl is Dorianne Wallingford. Maybe you don't have to worry. Maybe your name and his won't come up at all. Erica hasn't yet figured out who spread the rumor in the first place." 

I quickly switch from horror to fury. "I know who it was," I tell Claudia, hotly, "it was that stupid Lauren girl!" 

"No, it wasn't. She isn't going to tell anyone else. She's terrified that Kristy's going to spill about some of the awful and mostly illegal things she's done." 

I furrow my brow. "What?" I ask, confused. 

Claudia looks surprised. "Lauren said she told you. About Kristy threatening to punch out her lights if Lauren kept gossiping about you. I mean, Lauren really wasn't afraid of that. I think she could drop Kristy pretty easily. But then Kristy threatened to spread some gossip about Lauren. Some of the stuff is pretty bad. You have Mary Anne to thank for that really. She told Kristy stuff that Pete told her." 

"What?" I ask again. 

"Didn't Lauren tell you?" 

I think. I wasn't _really_ listening that day at Wes' apartment. I was focused on finding Wes, not on the ranting of some crazy girl. "I remember something about a cat…" I say, slowly. 

Claudia laughs. "Mary Anne told Kristy about the cat?" Claudia laughs again. "Oh, yeah, that was pretty awesome. Oh, and really, really tragic. Hey, my mom's waving at me. I have to go. We're leaving for Japan tomorrow. See you in a couple weeks!" Claudia waves and walks off, sort of bouncing, appearing perfectly happy. It must be nice. 

I sit very still for a while, staring into the distance, processing what Claudia said. People are talking about me. They're talking about Wes and me. They don't _know_ it's us, but what if they find out? Everyone will laugh at me. Everyone will say I'm a slut and a whore. I'll be a joke. And everything Wes predicted may come true. 

I wonder if I should warn him. 

I collect all my things, shoving as many notebooks and binders into my messenger bag as possible. I carry the rest in my arms, rather awkwardly. Once in my car, I drive to Birch Street. I drive past Wes' complex, but I can't see his parking spot from the road, so I don't know if he's home. And I don't have the nerve to go any closer. So, I drive home. 

As soon as I turn onto McLelland, my mood shifts. I'm no longer worried, I'm furious. Who does Kristy Thomas think she is? She's as bad as her mother! She may be worse. What's she doing butting into my business like I can't take care of myself? I don't need her so-called help. I can control things just fine on my own. 

I screech to a stop in my garage right between Mom and Dad's cars. They're home. At the same time. What a shock. I leave all my things in the car and stalk straight across the street. Kristin Amanda Thomas will hear a few things from me. I am relieved to see that the Thomas-Brewers' garage door is open and that neither Elizabeth's roadster or Watson's Suburban are inside. Unfortunately, however, Charlie and Janet's cars are in the driveway. I really don't care to see Janet at the moment. I doubt she's too happy about my telling Elizabeth about Sam. Although Janet certainly had no qualms about telling Elizabeth _my_ private business. 

Karen answers the door. 

"Hi, Shannon," she greets me and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Shannon the dog's been acting a bit crazy lately. I think the two of you may have a psychic link." 

"Oh, just get out of my way," I snap, shoving past her. 

I start across the foyer toward the staircase, figuring Kristy's likely up in her room. Probably spying on me from her window. As usual. Just as I reach the staircase, Janet and Charlie come thundering down it. Janet's leading the way, scowling. 

"Come back here!" Charlie shouts after her. 

Janet keeps moving. 

"I want to talk to you!" Charlie exclaims. 

"You're a jerk!" Janet yells without turning around. She sails right past me without acknowledgement, as does Charlie. 

Well, it's nice to see that Janet's already found someone new to fight with. 

I hurry up the stairs to Kristy's bedroom. I walk in without knocking. It's very brash and I don't care. Kristy would do the same. Kristy sits at her desk doing homework. She spins around in her chair and stares at me, sort of caught off-guard. 

"What are you doing here?" she asks. 

I open my mouth to lay right into her, but think better of it. Instead, I ask, "Have you talked to Mary Anne lately?" 

Kristy looks confused. "No. I've tried calling her, but she claims she's busy. And actually, I'm a little peeved with Mary Anne Spier at the moment. It would have been nice if she'd mentioned at some point that Stacey McGill's mother is dating Mr. Prezzioso! It would have saved me a lot of humiliation at the Washington Mall food court on Monday night!" 

Yes, because Kristy's humiliation is the most important thing in the world. 

"Why are you asking about Mary Anne?" Kristy wants to know. 

"No reason," I reply, dismissively. Then I set my mouth in a deep frown. "I just saw Claudia at the library. Why can't you stay out of my business?" I demand. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"You know what I'm talking about! I don't need you running around Stoneybrook threatening to beat people up for me! You are such a nosy busybody! Just like your mother!" 

"Leave my mother out of this," Kristy retorts, angrily. "Say whatever you wish about me, but lay off my mother. And I was trying to help you. You were being foolish and put yourself in a terrible position and the worst two people at SHS knew about it – Lauren and Pete. Mary Anne took care of Pete, so I took care of Lauren. You should thank me. I'm the reason people aren't pointing and laughing at you in the halls at school." 

"Oh, yes, Kristy, thanks so much," I say, sarcastically. "You were a big help. You helped in so many ways. _Thank you_. But from now on, don't help me ever again. I don't need you or your family. All you people do is make life worse for my sisters and me. Stick to helping out your own sorry, perverted lice-infested selves." 

Kristy's jaw drops. "Who told you I had lice?" she demands. 

"What?" 

"Did David Michael tell Maria? No one was supposed to know! And I'm the only one here who had them, so my family is _not_ lice-infested." 

Now my jaw drops. "You gave me lice!" I cry, pointing a finger at her. 

"I did not!" Kristy protests. "How could I? You weren't speaking to me. I was never around you _to_ give you lice. Wait…you had lice, too?" 

"Yes! My entire family did! Thanks so much! I had head and pubic lice, so thanks especially for that!" 

"You had _pubic_ lice? Gross! I only had head lice. I got it from Janet. That's what I get for stealing her barrette. She got it from Amy, who we figure got it at playgroup." 

"Janet gave you lice?" 

"Yes. That's why I missed school that Friday. Nannie had to treat my hair. The infestation was really nasty. We had to go back for a second bottle of shampoo. Mrs. Bernstein offered to squirt the shampoo up my nose in case any lice crawled up there. She's really weird. Hey, how'd you get lice though?" 

I am fuming. I knew it was Sam! And Tiffany tried to blame me! 

I whirl around and stomp out of Kristy's bedroom. Kristy comes after me. I run down the stairs. Janet and Charlie are crossing through the foyer again, Janet still in the lead. She's waving her arms and ranting about God knows what. 

"Thanks a lot for giving me crabs!" I shout at her when I reach the bottom of the staircase. 

Janet and Charlie freeze. 

"You gave her crabs!" Charlie exclaims. 

"I don't have crabs!" Janet cries. 

"Well, Sam gave them to Tiffany! And the only reason he didn't give them to you is because he couldn't stand to sleep in the same bed as you!" I yell, then storm across the foyer to the front door. 

"How did Sam give Tiffany crabs?" Kristy exclaims. 

I go out the door and slam it behind me. Janet can explain. As much as I would relish the expression on Kristy's face when she learns the truth, I really can't stand to be around these people any longer. 

I hurry across the street and retrieve my bag from the car, then go inside. I hear voices in the living room – Mom, Dad, and Tiffany. Their voices carry, but surprisingly, no one seems to be yelling. Curious, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room. Mom, Dad, and Tiffany are standing in a circle, facing one another. Dad's arms are folded, Mom's hands are on her hips. 

"What's going on?" I ask, starting to panic. Where's Maria? Has something happened to her? 

"Social Services is coming tomorrow!" Tiffany cries. 

"What! I thought you took care of that?" I tell Dad, accusingly. 

Dad shrugs. 

Mom scowls. "Apparently, it won't just go away. I don't know what kind of strings that Brewer woman pulled to get someone out here so fast. I thought Social Services was underfunded and overworked. They should be using their resources more efficiently and bothering poor people! Anyway, don't worry, Shannon. This will all go away after tomorrow. The social worker assured me this is more of a formality. A report has been made and they must come out and have a look around. It'll be fine." 

"We have to get rid of Maria," Tiffany announces. 

Mom and Dad are surprised. "Why?" Mom asks. 

"She has a big mouth. There's no telling what she'll say to the social worker." 

I nod. "That's right. Maria knows nothing about discretion," I confirm. I glance around. "Where _ is_ Maria?" I ask. 

Dad shrugs. 

Mom waves a hand. "I don't know." 

"Upstairs on the phone," Tiffany says. "I told you guys that." 

"Whatever," Mom says. "Now we must be on our best behavior tomorrow. I'll send Maria somewhere. The social worker can talk to the two of you. The house must be in perfect order. Tiffany, you have to clean that pigsty of yours tonight." Mom looks around the room. "And _what_ has Mrs. Bryar been doing for the last week? It appears she's done nothing at all! There are dishes piled in the sink, the hampers are full, the bathrooms are a mess! Is she sick? Because I don't care if she is, she needs to get her ass over here tomorrow and clean this house!" 

"Mrs. Bryar quit," Tiffany replies, simply. 

"Mrs. Bryar quit!" Mom roars. 

"On Friday." 

"How can she just quit? She gave no notice? How unprofessional! What the hell is wrong with that woman?" Mom shrieks. "I'm calling her and giving her a piece of my mind!" Mom stomps across the room and grabs the cordless phone off the couch. She turns it on. "Get off the phone, Maria!" she barks. When Maria hangs up, Mom dials information and gets connected to Mrs. Bryar's phone number. She stands with one hand on her hip, face twisted in fury, waiting for Mrs. Bryar to answer. 

Mrs. Bryar doesn't answer. 

"Where the hell is she?" Mom screeches and throws the phone across the room. 

"Yes, where is she?" I echo, irritated. 

Tiffany rolls her eyes. 

Dad shifts his eyes from side to side. "Now…" he says, hesitantly. "Mrs. Bryar is the cleaning lady, right?" 

Mom, Tiffany, and I throw our arms into the air. 

Maria comes down the stairs and enters the living room. "What's happening?" she asks. 

"Nothing!" Mom snaps, replacing her hands on her hips. "Fine. I'll have to call a cleaning service in the morning. It's going to cost a fortune to get someone out here before the afternoon. And I'll have to miss work to let them in and make sure they don't steal anything. This is so inconvenient! And it's all Elizabeth Brewer and Mrs. Bryar's fault!" 

"I know!" I agree. 

Tiffany rolls her eyes again. "You're both idiots," she mutters and walks away from us. She's lucky Mom doesn't hear. 

Mom paces the room, ranting and waving her arms. I find myself growing angrier and angrier right along with her. If Elizabeth had stayed out of my business, I'd still be with Wes. And if Mrs. Bryar had minded her own business, we'd have a clean house and a social worker wouldn't be coming here tomorrow. What's wrong with adults? At least my parents, as worthless as they may be, let me live my own life. 

"Can we eat dinner now?" Maria whines. 

"Sure. Whatever," Mom answers and wanders toward the kitchen, mumbling under her breath. Dad and Maria follow her. 

I hang back and catch Tiffany's wrist as she passes. "Why are you so interested in getting rid of the social worker?" I demand, eyeing her suspiciously, considering what her angle may be. 

Tiffany jerks her wrist out of my grip. "You think I want to go into foster care?" she retorts, coldly. "As soon as I turn sixteen, I'm getting emancipated. I'll be out of here. I'll get married if I have to. I can ride out this hellhole for a few more months. You'll be gone next fall and Maria hardly even lives here anymore. She'll be fine." Tiffany starts to walk away, but pauses and turns back to me. "And shut up about Elizabeth and Mrs. Bryar. There's nothing wrong with either of them!" 

"There's everything wrong with the both of them!" I exclaim. 

Tiffany rolls her eyes and continues into the kitchen. When I walk in, Maria's seated at the table eating Neapolitan ice cream from the carton with a giant spoon. Dad's making a peanut butter sandwich on the center island and Tiffany goes over to join him. I'm not hungry. I get a glass of apple juice. Mom isn't eating either. She's sifting through a stack of mail. 

"Ted!" Mom barks after a couple minutes. She's staring at a long bill. "Have you been calling that stupid sister of yours?" 

Dad wrinkles his nose. "Mirabelle? Why would I call _her_?" he replies, disdainfully. 

"Well, then, who called Evanston, Illinois eleven times last month?" Mom demands. 

My head whips around. I glare at Maria, who's peering guiltily over the top of the ice cream carton. What is wrong with her? Why is she calling Aunt Mirabelle? Aunt Mirabelle is Dad's younger sister. They don't get along and we've not seen her for years. I've only met her a couple times and remember almost nothing about her. I'm not sure Maria's even met her. Maybe once when Maria was very, very small. I continue to glare at Maria. Maria meets my gaze a moment, then averts her eyes, staring down into the ice cream carton. 

Suddenly, all the lights shut off. 

"What the hell!" Dad's voice booms. 

"Shannon!" Mom screams. "Did you pay the electric bill?" 

Oops. 


	51. Chapter 51

The electricity returns while I'm in the shower on Thursday morning. Last night was not a pleasant night at the Kilbourne house – but really is any night ever? The less said about it the better. There was, of course, plenty of yelling. Mom at me, Mom at Dad, Dad at Mom. And on and on. A few breakables were hurled around in the dark. Luckily, nothing hit anything but the walls. The rest of the evening was spent locked in my bedroom with my homework and a flashlight while Mom and Dad raged at each other downstairs. At least it was no longer directed at me. 

Tiffany and I come straight home after school. Mom's been here all day supervising the workers sent by the cleaning agency, as well as calling the credit card and utility companies to ensure that I paid those bills. I can't remember. I haven't been keeping the precise records I used to. I have a lot on my mind. I can't be expected to do everything. 

Mom sends Tiffany and I upstairs to change into fresh uniforms. She decided that we'll be best presented in our SDS uniforms – a reminder that we are private school girls from an affluent family. As if looking around the house the social worker might forget. My room is spotless and even Tiffany's is much less disastrous than usual. Throughout the house, the counters and tabletops and furniture gleam. On the outside, our home and lives appear perfect. If only the inside reflected the outer. 

Dad took Maria away. She has no idea what's happening. We don't plan to tell her. Knowing Maria, she'll find a way to spoil it. Dad's supposed to keep her out of sight until all is clear. ,p>Mom positions Tiffany and I at our desks with our homework spread before us. We look very studious. We look the part we are meant to play. So does Mom. She's dressed in a peach-colored A-line skirt with an ivory white silk blouse. It completely covers her breasts. For once. She actually looks like a mother. She looks like the mother I used to have. I feel a faint pang when I see her, sweeping down the hallway dressed like that, practicing a false warm, motherly smile that once came naturally. She speaks to me in a false warm voice, too. It's sugary and sweet. I wish it were real. 

The doorbell rings. 

"Oh, God," Mom groans. "That's her! Or him. Or whatever idiot public servant they've sent. Stay in here, Shanny. Don't come down until I call for you." Mom bustles out of my room. I hear her repeat the same to Tiffany. 

Mom's heels on the stairs, then clicking across the foyer tile. The door opens and Mom's voice drifts upward. It rings clear. It rings clear with false warmth and sincerity. A male voice answers, but I barely hear it. He speaks too low. I listen intently. The front door closes. More heel clicks on the tile. 

"Girls!" Mom calls up the stairs. "Could you come down here please?" 

I take a deep breath and push back my chair. Tiffany waits for me in the hallway. She's taken off most of her make-up. She looks the correct age. Fifteen. I wonder if I look as I should, too. Like a normal seventeen year old girl, not a girl who lies and deceives. Not a girl who has lain in a grown man's bed and made him promises she could not fully expect to keep. No, I look like who I am supposed to be. A real girl. The real Shannon. 

Tiffany and I take the stairs together. A matched pair in our uniforms. Mom stands at the bottom, smiling, beside a young man with slicked back brown hair and bronze-rimmed glasses. He doesn't appear very old. Maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. Perhaps, he could be Mom's next conquest. He's just the right age. I bet he'd give us a favorable report then. 

"Shannon, Tiffany," Mom begins, coming to stand near us. "This is Sammi Cleaver from Social Services. Mr. Cleaver, this is my eldest daughter, Shannon." Mom touches her hand to my shoulder. "And my middle daughter, Tiffany." Mom places her other hand on Tiffany's shoulder. 

The social worker's name is Sammi? As in _Sam_? This does not bode well. 

"Hello, Mr. Cleaver," Tiffany and I greet him in unison. 

He smiles. "Hello, girls," he replies and looks down at his clipboard. "Now it says here there's a younger daughter. A Marie." 

"Maria," Mom corrects. "Maria had to stay after school to work on a special project. I apologize that other arrangements could not be made. We only heard you would be coming yesterday afternoon." 

"That's how things work sometimes," Mr. Cleaver says, lightly, flipping through the papers on his clipboard. "I only got handed your case a couple hours ago, so I apologize for not being too familiar with it. I can speak to Marie – er, _Maria_ - another time, if necessary. Now is your husband home?" 

"No, unfortunately Ted is in the middle of a very important trial and could not make it. Of course, we realize the importance of this visit, but it was simply unavoidable. Nothing is more important to us than our girls and clearing up these horrid accusations." 

"Understandable," Mr. Cleaver says and makes a note on his clipboard. "Can you show me around?" 

"Certainly," Mom replies, grandly, and leads him into the living room. Tiffany and I follow. 

Mr. Cleaver looks around, jotting the occasional note on his clipboard. He asks Mom a lot of questions. He asks about Dad's job and Mom's job and how long we've lived in the house. He asks about the things we enjoy as a family and the places we like to go. It all seems like idle chit-chat. Mom answers perfectly each time. 

Mr. Cleaver's checking out the photos on the mantle and entertainment center. "Hey," he says, brightly. "Someone's a Kathleen Turner fan!" He points at the videos lined on a shelf. 

His back is to Mom, so he doesn't see her close her eyes in an exasperated fashion. She recovers quickly. "Yes," she says, breezily. "My husband is a huge fan. I think he may have a teeny crush on her." Mom chuckles. 

Mr. Cleaver turns around and smiles. "I like _War Of The Roses_. What a vicious couple. It's hard to believe people could be so dysfunctional. Of course, I see all kinds of things in this job." He makes another note. Perhaps, this creepy Kathleen Turner fetish of Dad's has finally done our family some good. 

Mom shows Mr. Cleaver the rest of the house and the backyard. He meets Astrid and Tiffany shows him where she keeps her garden in the spring and summer. Mr. Cleaver smiles and nods and appears perfectly satisfied with all our answers. After the backyard, we lead him upstairs, so he can see our bedrooms. We take him into Maria's room first. I show him Maria's swim trophies and math awards and some things she done with the entomology club. 

Next we take him into Tiffany's bedroom. 

"I'm sorry it's not very neat," Tiffany apologizes. 

"Looks no worse than my room," Mr. Cleaver says. He flips a page on his clipboard. "Now you're fifteen years old and a sophomore at Stoneybrook Day?" 

"Yes," Tiffany answers a bit hesitantly. 

Mr. Cleaver looks up, curiously. 

Mom jumps in. "Tiffany has had to repeat some of the freshman courses this year. She has trouble in math and English. However, she excels in the sciences." 

"And languages," I add. "She speaks lovely French." 

"And how are you doing this year?" 

"Much better. I have A's in oceanography and French. I'm passing all my other classes with B's and C's. Shannon helps me with my homework almost every night and so does my boyfriend. Here, this is my boyfriend." Tiffany crosses the room and takes a framed photo of herself and Tyler off the dresser. She takes it over to Mr. Cleaver. "His name is Tyler. He's a junior at Stoneybrook Day. He's in Honor Society and French club, plus he plays third base on the baseball team. We've been dating for two months." 

Mr. Cleaver nods and makes yet another note. "Now…" he begins. "There have been allegations made that you are…well, exchanging sexual favors for money." 

"That's outrageous!" Mom roars. 

"And gross!" Tiffany exclaims, wrinkling her nose, She appears convincingly offended. "I'm only fifteen! I'm not some skanky hooker!" 

"I'm appalled that anyone would make up such vindictive lies about my daughter," Mom informs Mr. Cleaver, angrily. 

Mr. Cleaver only nods and makes more notes. When he finishes, he glances up and smiles at me. "Why don't you show me your room?" he suggests. 

"Of course," I say, leading him across the hall. 

While Mr. Cleaver walks around the room, I point out all my awards and medals and certificates. My room does not look as if it belongs to a girl who sleeps with teachers. Mr. Cleaver checks out the Italian homework I purposely left spread out on the desk. He appears impressed. 

"Shannon's top of her class at Stoneybrook Day," Mom says, proudly. I think that's as false as anything else. "What is your rank, Shanny?" 

"I'm third in the class," I answer, promptly. Or at least I am until this semester's grades come out. Kristy Thomas will slide right past me. She's number five. I bet she'll take my spot. Like she's taken everything else. "I plan to go to Wellesley in the fall. Although Brown or Amherst will suffice. I'd like to study international business and foreign languages. I am fluent in Spanish and French, plus I'm in second-year Italian. This summer, Dr. George Dupree from the Religious Studies department at Stoneybrook University will be giving me private lessons in Greek." I manage to sound excited about the prospect. 

"Hey, I took one of his classes when I was at Stoneybrook U. It was…different." 

"His granddaughter is one of Shanny's oldest and dearest friends," Mom says, beaming, thinking that I've won us an extra point. 

Mr. Cleaver nods. "Well, you sound quite ambitious," he comments to me. "Now…the allegation has been made that you are engaging in sexual intercourse with teachers at your school. Is there any truth to that?" 

"Of course not!" I cry and am thankful that Maria and Mrs. Bryar didn't have their facts straight. I'm not even lying. For once, I am not lying at all. "I would never sleep with one of my teachers," I say, emphatically. Also, not a lie. I want to have sex with no one except Wes. "I'm disgusted that anyone would say such a thing about me," I add. 

"Do you have any boyfriends?" he asks. 

"No. I broke up with my boyfriend of six months in October. I'm not ready for another relationship. Plus, I don't have time," I answer, then list all the school activities I am involved in. Or am supposed to be involved in. I don't really attend meetings anymore. 

When Mr. Cleaver is satisfied with all our lies and half-truths, completely convinced by our polished façade, the three of us walk him back downstairs to the foyer. 

"Everything seems to be in order here," he tells us, brightly. "I'll be submitting my report to my boss in a few days, but I don't foresee any complications or a need for future visits. I am sorry for the inconvenience." 

"Oh, it's no inconvenience at all," Mom assures him. "My husband and I just want this cleared up and for our lives to return to normal. You can imagine how upsetting it's been for the girls. That anyone would be so spiteful and slanderous to construct such vile lies about teenage girls, well, I am beyond appalled." 

"Oh, well," Mr. Cleaver says with a nod, "bogus reports are made sometimes. Angry family members, disgruntled neighbors, but you understand we must check things out regardless. The children are what's important." He smiles at Tiffany and I. 

We smile back. 

Mom smiles, too. "Yes, and I thank you for being so concerned. I'm certain you're doing a wonderful job." 

Mr. Cleaver appears flattered. "Thank you, Mrs. Kilbourne," he says and shakes her hand. Then he shakes Tiffany's and mine. "It was nice meeting you both. Good luck at Wellesley, Shannon." 

"Thank you," I reply, still smiling. 

Mom walks Mr. Cleaver onto the front porch. Tiffany and I stand in the doorway. We watch Mr. Cleaver walk to his car parked at the curb. 

"What a pinhead," Tiffany laughs. "'Engaging in sexual intercourse'," she mimics and laughs again. "Did we get lucky or what? They sent us a _moron_." 

Mom turns around and smiles, not the warm, motherly smile that she wore for Mr. Cleaver. This smile is cold and smug. "_That_," she says with unbridled glee, "was even easier than I anticipated! Good work, girls!" 

Tiffany folds her arms and frowns slightly, but my pleasure matches Mom's. "That was so simple!" I cry. 

"I know," Mom agrees. "I'm so glad those idiots at Social Services sent us a child. I was worried we'd get some ball-busting shriveled up old maid. Now it's over and that Brewer woman didn't get the better of us!" Mom spins around to look down the street at Kristy's house. "There she is now!" Mom exclaims. 

I peer around the doorframe. Elizabeth's walking down her driveway dressed in a beige business suit, carrying a briefcase. She's headed for the mailbox and doesn't appear to have seen us. 

Mom trots down the front walk with a kick in her step. She stops on the sidewalk, facing Kristy's house, and raises her fist. "Nice try, Elizabeth Brewer!" she hollers across the street. "Your lies didn't work! You can't destroy our family, you slandering social climber!" 

Elizabeth freezes beside the mailbox and stares at us. Even at this distance, I can make out the complete and utter confusion on her face. She opens the mailbox, removes the mail, then turns and walks back up the drive. 

"Yes, you walk away!" Mom calls after her. Mom whirls back around and starts up the walk. "See? She can't back up her lies. She can only make anonymous, bogus phone calls. She knew they were coming. See? She was trying to spy on us." 

"I think she just got home from work," Tiffany points out. 

Dad's BMW turns down the street and roars toward us. 

"He was supposed to call first!" Mom growls and stalks toward the driveway. 

Tiffany and I follow. Dad's BMW flies up the drive and into the garage. Maria isn't with him. 

"Where's Maria?" I demand when Dad hops out of the car and saunters toward us dressed in his golf clothes. 

Dad stops mid-step. At first, his expression is blank, but it turns to faint panic. "I left her at the club!" he cries. 

"You left her at the club?" I shout. 

"You forgot Maria?" Tiffany yells. 

Dad looks confused. "What happened to her?" he mumbles to himself. "I played golf…she's a great caddy…I bought her something to eat…she went to find the restroom…I saw Phil Jardin…and…oh, I guess, I forgot to wait for her to come back from the restroom." 

Tiffany's and my mouths gape in horror. 

"Maybe someone _should_ take Maria away!" Tiffany shrieks. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Mom snaps. "Shannon will drive to Mercer and retrieve Maria from the club. Maria's fine. I'm sure she's having a grand time charging desserts onto our account." 

I seriously doubt that. 

Just then, Mr. Jardin's Jaguar squeals to a halt in front of our house. Maria's in the front seat. She glowers at us, nostrils flaring. Mr. Jardin points at Dad and laughs. Dad shrugs and chuckles. Then they begin making punching motions at each other. I can't believe this is my father. 

Maria jumps out of the car, swinging her backpack over her shoulder. She stomps toward us, still glowering. "I'm not speaking to you!" she barks at Dad. 

"I can't believe you left Maria at the country club!" Tiffany shouts and rushes after Maria. 

"Really, Dad," I agree. 

Dad doesn't listen. He jogs down the walk to talk to Mr. Jardin. They're still laughing. 

"Your father is the stupidest man alive," Mom tells me, bitterly. "Now I have to go into the office. I've wasted the entire day with this nonsense. I'll be home sometime tonight." Mom walks back into the house, leaving me behind. 

Tiffany and Maria lock me out of Maria's bedroom. I knock, but Maria refuses to let me in. How is this my fault? And since when is she not mad at Tiffany? Dejected, I wander back to my room and resume my homework. As upset as I am about Dad _forgetting_ Maria – but honestly since when does he ever remember us? – I am also elated. Social Services will leave us alone. We fooled the social worker. Our lives will return to…to what is normal for us. My sisters won't go anywhere. I will regain control. 

I hear Maria's bedroom door open and close. Then Tiffany's door closes. I continue my homework. Around six-thirty, I push away from my desk and walk downstairs. Mom's still gone. I don't know what happened to Dad. Did he ever actually come inside the house, or did he simply take off with Mr. Jardin? Oh, who cares. I walk into the kitchen and set a frying pan on the stove. I make a grilled cheese sandwich for Maria using cheddar and pepperjack, her favorite combination. I toast each side lightly, just as Maria likes it. When it's ready, I slide the sandwich onto a plate with a pickle and potato chips and pour a glass of apple juice. I carry them upstairs to Maria's room. 

I knock. "It's Shannon!" I call out. 

"Come in," Maria grunts. 

I open the door and walk in, smiling. "I made you dinner," I tell her and set the plate and glass on Maria's night table. She's lounging on the bed, writing in a journal. Dear Lord. I hope she isn't documenting everything that goes on in this house! I turn my eyes from the journal and sit down on the end of Maria's bed. "I'm sorry Dad left you," I say. 

Maria grunts again. "Yeah, and it was such a great day, too," she says, sarcastically. "I really enjoyed lugging his golf bag around the country club." 

"Dad's an idiot, you know that." 

Maria shrugs, then looks suspicious. "What were you, Mom, and Tiffany doing here without me? You got rid of me, I know it!" 

"We weren't doing anything. Dad wanted to spend time with you," I lie. 

"Yeah, right," Maria replies, glumly. She eyes me. "What, were you all having your boyfriends over for sex?" she asks. 

"No! And you know I broke up with my boyfriend!" 

Maria shrugs again. 

"Did you finish your homework?" I ask her, pleasantly. 

"Yes." 

I don't know what else to say. I sit and watch Maria pick at her dinner. She eats a couple chips and takes a bite out of her sandwich. I should broach the topic of Aunt Mirabelle, but maybe it's not the right time. I should wait until tomorrow. 

Maria sips her juice. "So," she says, breaking the silence, "I was talking to Mrs. Bryar – " 

"Why were you talking to Mrs. Bryar?" I interrupt. What is Maria telling her _now_? 

"Because I called her to see how she's doing. She's just fine. She told me to tell you thank you very much for mailing her her check and that the way you spelled her name made her feel like a porn star." 

I narrow my eyes. What's wrong with Mrs. Bryar? Talking about porn to Maria! Now that I think about it, she always was rather odd. We really don't know anything about her other than that her husband left her and she enjoys filing highly inaccurate reports with Social Services. In light of recent evidence toward her true character, the former is not surprising at all. 

"You are not to speak to that woman ever again!" I tell Maria, furiously. "Her or Elizabeth Brewer! Or any member of the Thomas-Brewer family!" I jump off the bed and storm out of Maria's bedroom. 

I return to my bedroom. I sit down at my desk and stare down at my geology textbook. A strangled cry escapes my throat. I shove my books off the desk and bury my head in my arms. Things were all right two hours ago. Why must Maria insist on being difficult? Why can't she allow me to do what I know is best? 

My phone rings. My heart still leaps each time it cuts into the silence. A part of me still hopes Wes will come back. Maybe he misses me, too. I pick up the receiver and put it to my ear. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi, Shannon!" Greer greets me. 

"Oh, hello." 

There's a short pause. "Are you okay? You sound disappointed." 

"No. No." 

Greer sighs. She knows. But she doesn't mention Wes. "What's going on?" she asks and I wonder if this call has a point. We haven't been on the friendliest of terms this week. I still haven't forgiven her and she still won't let up. 

"Nothing. Just homework. What's going on with you?" 

"Not much. Mom and I are just making our plans for the big Christmas party," Greer says. Every year, Mr. and Mrs. Carson throw an enormous party over the holidays. People come from all over Southern Connecticut to attend. It's a really big deal. "Mom reminded me to invite you. I hope you don't mind…but…we didn't send your parents an invitation this year." 

"I'm not offended." 

"Oh, good! But I forgot to invite you. You'll come, right? It's on Friday the twenty-second." 

"I don't know," I say, hesitantly. I'm not at all in the Christmas spirit. We haven't even decorated our house or bought a tree. "Greer…" I start, a thought occurring to me. "Are the Ellenburgs going to be there?" 

"Omigawsh!" Greer screams in my ear. "I didn't even think about them! I'll check with Mom. You _can't_ come if they are. I'm sorry, I know it's rude to disinvite you, but I'm seriously afraid Mrs. Ellenburg may maim or disfigure you if she sees you." 

"No, I understand," I say. 

"They're probably not coming," Greer insists. "I bet they'll be out of town or something. So, say you'll probably come, please? You need a party. You need some holiday spirit." 

"All right," I agree without any passion. I don't remember when the Ellenburgs leave for Miami. It really doesn't matter. I'm not going to Greer's party either way. 

"Mark the date on your calendar," Greer chirps. "December twenty-second." 

"All right." 

Greer carries on a one-sided conversation for a few more minutes, then we hang up. I pick up my pen and lean over the desk to my calendar. I write _Greer's party_ in the box for December twenty-second. I mark it, then stare at the calendar. I tilt my head and stare. My stomach tightens. I turn back to November. I turn back and begin to count. 


	52. Chapter 52

I push through the doors of the pharmacy on Essex Road on Friday afternoon. I've spent the day wringing my hands, sick with nerves, on the brink of tears. It's taken me until now to finally muster the courage to come down here. This isn't something I can simply ignore. But I can't be pregnant. I can't. Wes and I were extremely careful. Wes always wore a condom. 

I'm relieved to see it's the cranky female pharmacist behind the counter and not her husband. I could never purchase a pregnancy test from a man. I'm not certain I can purchase one from a woman either. 

"Good afternoon," the pharmacist greets me, barely glancing up. She's concentrating on painting the fingernails on her left hand. 

I mumble a reply that I know she can't hear and move quickly toward the contraceptive aisle. I stop in front of the pregnancy tests and stare. They stare back, mocking me. I feel sick. I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up right here in the contraceptive aisle and the cranky pharmacist will toss me out and threaten to phone my mother. Oh, dear Lord. I cannot be pregnant. 

"Can I help you with something?" the pharmacist asks. She has a bored voice like Sally White. She doesn't sound particularly helpful. 

"No," I answer, softly, and continue to stare. I tug on my school sweater. I should have changed out of my uniform. This only makes the whole experience more embarrassing. 

"You know," the pharmacist says, "nothing in that aisle will do you any good if you simply stare at it. If you have a question, please ask and I will assist you." 

"I don't need any help!" I reply and grab the box nearest to me. I hurry up to the counter and slam the test down. 

The pharmacist screws on the top of her nail polish bottle. She blows on her fingernails and peers at me over her glasses. Then she picks up the test and looks at it a moment. "It's really none of my business," she says and my stomach sinks, sensing a lecture coming on. That's all I need. Another Elizabeth Brewer in my life. "But I think you should wait to graduate high school before actively trying to conceive." 

"Excuse me?" I reply, edgily. 

The pharmacist flips the test around so I can see it. "This is an ovulation test kit. I suspect you want a pregnancy test. Unless, of course, you're attempting to discover which two days of the month to _not_ have sex. In that case, I admit I am almost impressed by your clever, yet flawed, plan." 

Great. The pharmacist is a comedienne. 

I snatch the test out of her hand and whirl around, storming back to the contraceptive aisle. I won't give her the satisfaction of asking what ovulation is. Unfortunately for me, the pharmacist comes out from behind the counter, trailing after me, blowing on her nails. 

I set the ovulation test kit back on the shelf. 

The pharmacist immediately picks it back up. "You could at least return it to the correct spot," she says, lightly, and slides it onto a lower shelf. "Now, how late is your period?" 

"I really don't need any help," I tell her, crabbily, and grab a pregnancy test off the shelf. I make sure it's actually labeled as such. "You can go back to your manicure." 

"I have to wait for this hand to dry. How else will I ring up your purchase? Now, how late is your period?" 

"A week or so," I answer, grudgingly. What an irritating and pushy woman. 

"Well, then, you do need my help because that's the wrong test." She plucks it out of my hand. "This one isn't always accurate so early. We'll find you a better one." She begins scanning an unpolished finger over the pregnancy tests. 

The pharmacy door swings open and the bell chimes. In stalks a thin brunette girl, slouched forward, clutching a stack of books to her chest. She isn't wearing a coat or scarf, even though snow is predicted at any moment. 

"You're late," the pharmacist informs her. 

"I'm here, aren't I?" the girl retorts, heading for the counter. 

"You were supposed to be here at four o' clock. Your father's been waiting. You promised Uncle Malcolm – " 

"I know what I promised!" the girl snaps and spins around. She's very pale with dark circles under her eyes. She's dressed very neatly, but looks quite ill. A string of pearls rests at her throat. "Can't you stop being a bitch for two seconds? Get off my back!" 

The pharmacist places her hands on her hips. "When I decide to be a bitch, Emily Elaine, you will be well aware of it. I've been extremely patient with this attitude of yours. We aren't starting this foolishness again. If you insist of starting this up every few months, you're going to send me to an early grave!" 

"You're always threatening to die and you never do it!" the girl exclaims. "You're never going to die! You're going to live _forever_. You're going to live to be two hundred years old and you'll still be bitching at me!" The girl disappears out of sight somewhere in the back of the pharmacy. 

The pharmacist purses her lips so tight they actually disappear. 

"Your daughter is charming," I tell her. I can't help myself. 

The pharmacist brushes her black hair away from her face. "She's under a lot of stress. She doesn't get enough sleep," she says, briskly, and removes a pregnancy test from the shelf. "This is the one." 

I snatch a second test off the shelf and follow her to the counter. She steps up to the register and rings up the first test. I slide over the second test and she rings it up, too. I want to be certain. I want to be certain that I am _not_ pregnant. 

Somewhere at the back of the pharmacy, raised voices boom. The pharmacist completely ignores the noise and holds out her hand. "That'll be fourteen dollars and twenty-eight cents," she informs me. 

I take out my wallet and slowly count out the exact amount. I hand over the money and bite my lip as the pharmacist places the money in the cash register, then slides both pregnancy tests into a white paper bag. She folds the top over. I want to cry. I want to hug someone and be held and cry. 

"Would you like your receipt?" the pharmacist asks, holding it out to me. 

I shake my head. 

"All right then." She drops it into the wastebasket. Then she picks up some pamphlets off the counter and hands them to me. Two have _Safe Sex_ written in bold letters. One is for the Stoneybrook Health Clinic. "You should have a look at these," she says. "And whether or not you are pregnant, you should make an appointment at the clinic. Good luck with your test." She turns and walks away, disappearing between two rows of shelves. A door opens. "Stop yelling at her!" the pharmacist barks, then in a much calmer voice says, "Emily, we don't _have_ to go to your uncle's. We can do whatever _you_ want to do." 

Well, no wonder her daughter's a brat. 

I carefully shove the paper bag into my messenger bag and leave the pharmacy. Outside, December rages on, frigid and bitter, the chilled air biting at my face. I stand on the corner a moment, thinking of what's hidden in my messenger bag. How did this happen to me? It wasn't supposed to. Not to me. I finally step off the curb and walk to my car. As I turn over the engine, the pharmacy goes dark. I back out onto Essex and drive home. 

Maria and David Michael are sitting on our front porch when I pull into the driveway. I scowl when I see him. Why doesn't Maria listen to me? I hop out of the car and walk around to the front of the house. Maria has an arm around David Michael's shoulders. His cheeks are tear-stained. 

"What's wrong?" I ask, grouchily. 

Maria looks up. "David Michael Thomas is upset," she explains. 

Well, obviously. 

"What happened?" I ask. 

Maria looks over at David Michael, then back up at me. "Sam called last night," she says. "Elizabeth told him to stay away." 

I am unable to immediately mask my surprise. I rebound as quickly as possible. "Everyone's better off," I tell them and continue into the house. I'm not at all shocked that Elizabeth would be so cold to her own child. That's just like her. 

I walk up to my bedroom and shut the door. I lock it and take out the white paper bag. I spread the pregnancy tests on the bed, sit down beside them, and stare. I touch one. It doesn't seem real. I draw my hand back and rest it in my lap. I wish Wes were here. I wish he were here to hold me and comfort me and whisper in my ear that everything will be all right, regardless, and he will love me and take care of me. 

I walk over to my desk and pick up the phone. I dial. 

"What are you doing?" I ask Greer when she answers. 

"Nothing. Beer and I were talking about going to a movie," she says. 

I wonder when people will stop calling Bertram "Beer". 

"Can you come over?" I ask. 

"Yeah. Is something wrong? You sound kind of…queasy." 

Can someone _sound_ queasy? 

"Just come over please." 

"Okay. Yeah, sure, I'll come over. Do you want me to bring Sally?" 

"I don't care." 

We hang up and I wait. I stare at the tests awhile longer, then slide them back into the paper bag. I hide the bag beneath my pillow. And I wait. Several minutes pass and I hear a car door slam, then another. The doorbell rings. I don't move. I continue to wait. The front door opens and I hear the faint sound of Maria's voice downstairs. Greer's answers. Footsteps gallop up the stairs. A knock at the door. 

"Come in," I call, voice breaking. 

The doorknob jiggles. 

"It's locked!" Greer shouts. 

I stand and cross the room slowly and unlock the door. Greer and Sally slip into the room. They look so normal. Like normal teenage girls in jeans and sweaters. Like how I should look. Like how I should be. 

"What's wrong?" Greer asks. 

I shut the door and lock it. I return to my bed and sit, folding my hands in my lap. I bite my lip. I can't speak. 

Greer and Sally stand in the center of the room, staring at me. 

"You didn't go back to the middle school, did you?" Sally asks. 

I shake my head. 

"Did you go to his apartment?" Greer asks. 

I shake my head. 

"Does this have _anything_ to do with him?" Greer asks. 

I hesitate, then nod. I remove the white paper bag from underneath my pillow. I unfold the top and pull out one of the tests. I show it to Greer and Sally. 

"Omigawsh," Greer gasps, a hand flying to her mouth. 

Sally also clasps a hand over her mouth. I've stunned Sally White. I've rendered her speechless. Perhaps, I should consider this an accomplishment. 

"How late are you?" Greer asks. 

I shrug. "Over a week." 

"I bet you aren't pregnant," Greer insists in a rush. "You've been stressed out. That's why you've missed your period. And I bet you didn't miss it. It's just late." 

Sally recovers. "Didn't he wear a condom or something?" she asks. 

"Of course!" I cry, offended. Does she think I'm _stupid_? "He wore one every time." 

"Well, he didn't wear it properly then," Sally says, dryly. 

"You aren't helping!" Greer hisses. 

Sally almost looks embarrassed. She crosses the room to me and plucks the pregnancy test from my hand. "Greer's right. You've been very stressed out. We'll settle this once and for all. Come on, let's take the test." Sally starts toward the door. 

"Don't let my little sister see!" I cry, lunging forward. 

Sally tucks the box under her sweater. I stuff the paper bag with the other test underneath my pillow again. Greer and I follow Sally into the bathroom. Greer locks the door behind us. Sally opens the pregnancy test and unfolds the instructions. 

"Have you ever taken a pregnancy test?" she asks Greer. 

"No! I'm on the pill and I always use a condom, too," she replies, stiffly. She looks over at me a bit guiltily. "Not that you were irresponsible or…" 

Even Greer the slut hasn't been dumb enough to get pregnant. But I am _not_ pregnant. Absolutely not. 

"Okay, Starshine," Sally says, staring down at the instructions. She holds the applicator out to me. "Do you want to pee on the stick or in a cup?" 

I don't take the applicator. I back away. 

Sally shakes it at me. "You have to take the test or else you won't know." 

I reach out and take the applicator. "I'll use a cup," I say, quietly. 

Greer ducks down under the sink and gets a paper cup. She hands it to me, then she and Sally go out to wait in the hall. I set the applicator and cup on the counter. I rest my hands on the edge and lean forward, holding my eyes tightly shut. I can't cry. I won't cry. I won't cry because I'm not pregnant. 

I call Greer and Sally back into the bathroom when I finish. 

"Why is the applicator still sitting on the sink?" Greer asks. 

I shrug. I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub, legs crossed, hands folded over my knee. 

"You have to take the test," Sally says a bit agitatedly. 

Greer picks up the cup and dips the end of the stick in it. "How long?" she asks Sally. 

"About fifteen seconds," Sally replies. She sits down on the floor beside the door. 

Greer lifts the stick out of the cup. "Now how long?" she asks Sally. 

"Three minutes or so." 

Greer hops onto the counter, holding my pregnancy test. She crosses her legs like me. She holds the test so casually. I can't even look at it. 

"We really did use a condom every time," I tell them. It's important that they believe me. I don't know why. "Even when I said it was okay not to." 

"Why would you tell him not to wear one?" Sally asks, aghast. "Were you _trying_ to get pregnant?" 

"Of course not!" I exclaim. I'm not like that. Why would I do such a thing on purpose? To trap him? To make him stay with me? 

"We believe you," Greer says with a sharp look in Sally's direction. "No birth control method is one hundred percent." 

I look up at her, confused. "It's not?" I ask, feeling foolish. 

Greer and Sally both appear taken aback. 

"Didn't you ever take sex education?" Sally inquires. 

"We don't have it at SDS." 

"Didn't your mother ever talk to you about these things?" 

I shake my head. 

Greer and Sally frown and exchange another glance. I feel very stupid. 

Sally checks her watch. "It's been three minutes," she announces. 

Greer looks down at the stick and wrinkles her brow. "How do I know?" 

"A blue line for negative, a pink line for positive," Sally answers. 

I close my eyes. I don't want to see Greer's expression. I cover my ears. I don't want to hear her either. 

But I do anyway. 

"You're pregnant," Greer says. 

I cry. 

Greer and Sally let me be. Greer wraps the test in toilet paper and stuffs it back inside the box. She dumps out the cup and washes her hands. Sally just watches me, chin resting in her right palm. Greer returns to the counter, jumps up onto it and watches me, too. I cry and cry. Why is this happening to me? I can't have a baby! I can't get fat and wear maternity clothes and give birth. I can't do any of that. I'm only seventeen years old. I wrap my arms around myself and sob harder. Oh, dear Lord. I'm pregnant. I'm having Wes' baby. Our baby. 

"I'm sorry, Starshine," Sally says. Her voice isn't bored and flat like usual. There's actual emotion in it. She sounds younger. She sounds like she's really sorry. 

Greer hands me a box of tissues. "I'm sorry, too, Shannon," she says, quietly. "Maybe the test is wrong. Let's take the other one," she suggests. "Sally, go get it." 

We take the second test. 

I'm still pregnant. 

I start crying again. I bury my face in my hands, rock back and forth on the edge of the tub. I don't know what I'll do. I don't know what I'll say. I don't know anything anymore. And beyond the sound of my tears, I hear a horrid little voice nag at me, pointing out a seed Sally planted. I raise my face from my hands to look at Greer and Sally. Sally's on the floor again, knees drawn to her chest. Greer's still seated on the counter. 

"Do you think…"I begin, hesitantly. "Do you think…now that I'm pregnant…that maybe…" 

"You can have an abortion?" Greer cuts in. "Absolutely. They do them at the Stoneybrook Health Clinic." 

"No…I mean…I mean…now that I'm pregnant…" 

Sally shakes her head. "No, Shannon, no," she says. 

I drop my eyes to my knees. 

"What?" Greer asks Sally, mystified. 

"She wants to know if he'll want her back now that she's having his baby." 

"Oh…" Greer says, slowly. "No. I don't think you should even tell him. You've done enough to him already." 

My head snaps up. "He's going to find out!" I tell her. "I'm _pregnant_. I'm going to get fat. People will talk about me. Oh, dear Lord. Everyone's going to know!" I hold a hand over my mouth and let out a strangled sob. 

"They won't if you have an abortion," Greer says, simply. 

"I can't kill our baby!" I protest. "Would you have an abortion?" 

"Absolutely." 

I stare at her, astounded. I could never do such a thing. Never ever. But I don't want to be pregnant either. Maybe I'll have a miscarriage. Maybe I can _make_ myself miscarry. I can throw myself down the stairs. Maybe Greer or Sally could hit me in the stomach with a sack of potatoes. That might work. 

"Would you have an abortion?" I ask Sally. 

She shrugs. "I don't know." 

"I think Wes and I should make this decision together." 

Sally scowls. "You are going to _kill_ this man," she tells me. 

"Don't tell him, Shannon. Please don't. Just get an abortion and move on with your life." 

I bite my lip. Tears spring from my eyes once more. I lean forward, pressing my hands to my stomach, my stomach where Wes' and my baby grows inside. 


	53. Chapter 53

Maria wakes me in the morning by shaking me hard. I crack open an eye and stare at her, half-seeing. She's fully dressed in dark blue jeans with her pea coat buttoned and a knitted green scarf wrapped around her neck. I roll onto my side and check the alarm clock. It's twelve-thirty. I never sleep this late. I'm still tired though, my eyes already drooping. 

"What is it?" I croak. 

"I'm going out," Maria informs me. 

"Where are you going and whom are you going with?" 

Maria hesitates. "The Thomas-Brewers," she answers. "Kristy and Charlie are driving me, David Michael Thomas, Karen, Andrew, and Emily Michelle to Mercer to buy another Christmas tree. Elizabeth wants one for the den. We're going to stop for lunch." 

"Fine. Go," I tell her. She doesn't listen to me anyway. 

Maria continues standing and staring at me. "Kristy wants to know why you're still asleep," she says. 

"It's none of Kristy's business why I'm still asleep," I snap. I struggle to sit up and brush my hair out of my eyes. "Kristy isn't here, is she?" I ask. 

Maria shakes her head. "No. She wanted me to invite you along though. I told her you were still sleeping. She wants to know if you're sick." 

"Stop discussing my private life with Kristy Thomas, please." 

Maria scowls. "I wish Kristy were my sister," she tells me. Not even angrily. Just like it's an every day fact. 

"Ask her to adopt you then," I snap and lay back down. I roll over, turning my back on Maria. 

Maria leaves the room, slamming the door behind her. A couple minutes later, the front door slams, too. I lay still and stare at the wall. I don't think I'll ever leave this bed again. I'll stay right here under the covers. I'll stay here until I die. 

Staying in bed forever lasts for ten more minutes, then I realize I have to leave the bed and the room to use the bathroom. In the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look terrible. I look like a beast. I look like trash. Barefoot and pregnant trash. I sit down on the edge of the bathtub and cry some more. My life is over. It is ruined. I will never be the same Shannon again. I will never live the same life again. 

I manage to stop crying long enough to shower and brush my teeth. I throw up in the toilet afterward. I don't know how I manage that. I've hardly eaten anything in days. And I know it's too soon for morning sickness. No, it's simply nerves. Nerves and fear and the realization that I am ruined. I run a hairbrush through my wet hair. I look fresh and clean. I smell fresh and clean. Like honeysuckle. I smell like honeysuckle. But on the inside, I am spoiled and rotten. On the inside, something grows inside me that I do not want. 

I walk downstairs. Mom's in the kitchen at the table with her briefcase open and papers spread all across the tabletop. She doesn't acknowledge me when I enter. Maybe she doesn't notice me at all. I put two pieces of whole wheat toast in the toaster and pour a glass of apple juice. I need to start eating again. Unless…if I starve myself, will I starve the baby? Can I have a miscarriage that way? I wonder. I sip my apple juice and watch the toaster. Who could I ask? I'm not going back to that pharmacy, that's for sure. I'll ask Greer or Sally. They'll know. They seem to know everything. I know nothing at all. 

I butter my toast and spread a thin layer of grape jam on each slice. I take tiny bites. It's hard to chew. It's even harder to swallow. I take a bite, chew, swallow, wash it down with juice. The routine takes my mind off things for a while. I concentrate on it and forget everything else. Bite, chew, swallow, sip. Bite, chew, swallow, sip. 

When I finish, I set my plate and glass in the sink. The dishes are piling up again. Isn't Mom going to find a new cleaning lady? Am I supposed to do that, too? 

I walk over to the table and rest my hand on the back of an empty chair. 

I want to tell my mother. 

"Mom…" I squeak. 

Mom doesn't look up. "What is it, Shannon?" she replies. 

I remain silent. 

"Well?" 

"Nothing. I just wanted to wish you a good afternoon." 

"Good afternoon," Mom grunts. 

I go back upstairs. I strip out of my pajamas and stand in front of the floor length mirror in only my white cotton panties. I touch my breasts. When will they begin to swell? I touch my stomach. How long before I get fat? How long can I hide it? It won't be easy in my school uniform. Mrs. Stevenson did it. But I can't go to school in bulky sweaters and coats, especially not when springtime comes. When is my baby due? August? Everyone will know long before then. I won't get to graduate with my class. Dr. Patek and the school board would never allow it. 

I continue staring at myself, fingertips pressed to my skin. When I tell Wes…if I tell Wes…what will he say? He'll be mad, I think. Will he stay mad? Will he eventually forgive me? He has to if I have his baby. Our baby. He'll have to speak to me. He'll have to make an effort. He's a good man. He won't be like Sam Thomas. Wes would be a good father and he'd love our baby. And maybe…he would love me, too. I know he still does. A part of him does. Sally might be wrong. He may eventually want me again. He really did love me. We really were happy. We could have that again. 

I dress in jeans and a white thermal with tiny yellow flowers. I pull a navy blue zip-up sweatshirt over it. I still look terrible. I look sad. I look like a slob. Barefoot and pregnant trash, that's all I am now. I slide on a pair of sneakers, but it doesn't make a difference. Deep down, I know what I am. 

When I go back downstairs, the telephone's ringing. I duck into Dad's study to answer. I sit on the edge of the desk and pick up the receiver. 

"Hello, Kilbourne residence," I answer, dully. 

"Hello?" replies a female voice. 

"Hello?" 

There's a pause. "Kathalynn?" she finally says. 

I almost giggle. No one ever calls Mom that. "No. This is Shannon," I correct her. 

"Shannon!" she exclaims. "This is your aunt. Aunt Mirabelle." 

I grip the receiver tight. Aunt Mirabelle? I almost slam the receiver down. What does she want? What has Maria told her about us? 

"Shannon?" 

"Yes. I'm here." 

There's another pause. "Well…I haven't spoken to you in ages," Aunt Mirabelle says, cheerfully. It sounds a bit forced. "You're a senior now, I guess. And getting ready for college. Maria's told me all about you, of course." 

I bet she has. 

"What do you want?" I ask, coldly. We don't need her. We don't need another adult butting in and mucking things up. 

Another pause. "Well…I was looking for Ted, actually," she says. 

"He isn't here." 

"Is Kathalynn home?" 

"No," I lie. 

"Oh…well…" Aunt Mirabelle's voice trails off. "I know it's short notice but I'd really love for you and your sisters to come out to Evanston over the holidays. It's been so long. Kate and Jen would love to see you. They're sixteen and fourteen now. And you can meet Max." 

"Who's Max?" 

"My stepson. He's twelve, like Maria. Didn't you know I remarried?" 

"I didn't know you ever got divorced." 

"Yes, yes, I did…eight years ago." 

"Oh." 

"I know things are strained between your parents and I, but I never wanted to not have a relationship with you girls. I tried to write and send gifts, but your parents returned them. You wouldn't believe how thrilled I was a couple months ago when Maria began calling. She seems like such a sweet, delightful girl. She'd really like to come visit and we'd be excited to have her. You and Tiffany, too." 

"I don't know what Maria told you, but she lies. A lot. She has to see a psychiatrist. Dr. Kasey Petrinski. You can check her out. She specializes in disturbed children." I close my eyes. I can't believe I'm telling such lies about Maria. But I don't even know Aunt Mirabelle. I don't even remember what she looks like. And I don't know her agenda. She has an agenda. All adults do. 

Aunt Mirabelle is silent a moment. "I don't believe you, Shannon," she says, softly. 

"Why not? How do you know you can believe Maria? We haven't seen you in a decade!" 

"Maria sounds like a very unhappy girl. She talks more about your cleaning lady and the people across the street than she does your own parents. I think there's something seriously wrong with that, Shannon. And I think there's something seriously wrong at your house. Now, I know a social worker has – " 

I hang up the phone. How does Aunt Mirabelle know about the social worker? How does _Maria_ know? I unplug the phone jack. Then I run through the house unplugging all the jacks. Aunt Mirabelle won't interfere. She has no business interfering. She doesn't know us. She doesn't know anything about us. 

When I've finished with that, I go upstairs to Maria's bedroom. I have to find that journal. I search under her mattress and underneath the bed. I root through all her drawers and her backpack and her closet. I don't find the journal. Where could it be? Is it possible she carries it on her at all times? I need to know what she's writing. I need to know what she's telling Aunt Mirabelle and Mrs. Bryar and Elizabeth and everyone else. 

Astrid wanders into Maria's room. She nudges me with her nose. 

"Want to go for a walk?" I ask her. The fresh air will do me good. I'm feeling sick again, tight and all bound up. 

I snap on Astrid's leash and call to Mom that I'm leaving. She doesn't answer. She probably doesn't hear. Astrid and I head across the street. We'll go to Edgerstone. We'll visit Greer. We're approaching Kristy's house when I see Janet's Honda in the driveway. Its trunk is lifted and the inside filled with groceries. I slow, although I should speed up. Elizabeth and Janet appear from the garage, walking side by side, laughing. What is this? Why aren't they bickering? It's like I've stepped into a parallel universe. 

Elizabeth and Janet slow when they see me. They watch me as they walk around to the back of Janet's car. They each lift a grocery bag out of the trunk and hold it, waiting for me to meet them on the sidewalk. 

"Hello, Shannon," Elizabeth greets me, pleasantly. 

"Hello, Elizabeth. Hello, Janet," I reply, flatly. 

Janet doesn't say anything. She simply frowns. 

"How are you these days?" Elizabeth asks. 

I can't believe she's acting so casual, as if she hasn't ruined my life. As if she isn't continuing to try to ruin my life. Her and her nosy daughter. But no, Elizabeth Brewer stands there with a grocery bag in her arms, a box of spaghetti noodles peeking out the top, and pretends she is not the breaker of teenage girls' hearts. 

"I'm fine," I say, stiffly. 

"That's good. We miss having you around the house. I'd really like it if you stopped by sometime for a talk. We have a lot to talk about." 

"No, we don't," I reply, icily. 

Elizabeth's mouth turns down. She gets that pitying look in her eyes. She reaches out to touch my shoulder, but I jerk away. I yank Astrid's leash and continue down the street. I don't turn around and Elizabeth doesn't call after me. 

Greer answers the door when I ring the bell. 

"Hey, Shannon," she greets me, leaning out the doorway. "How are you?" she asks a bit hesitantly. 

I shrug. "Are you busy?" I ask. 

Greer shakes her head. "No, no. Karl just left. We were practicing our skit for the Christmas pageant. It's this week, you know. We're really excited." 

I nod. "That's good. Can we talk?" 

"Yeah, let's take Astrid around back, then we'll go up to my room." 

Greer and I let Astrid loose in the backyard, then enter the house through the sliding glass doors. The inside of Greer's house is gorgeously decorated for Christmas. There are three trees lined up by the front windows. All are silver and each tree has a single color of bulbs on it – green, blue, and purple. Christmas carols drift in from the kitchen along with the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Carson and Greer's older brother. They're laughing and singing along. I bite my lip and almost start to cry again. 

Greer leads me up to her bedroom. It seems a long time since I've been up here. But it can't really be more than a couple months. Greer shuts and locks the door behind us. I sit down in her recliner while Greer perches on a high stool. 

"So…" Greer starts. 

I rock slightly in the chair and fold my hands over my stomach. I can't stop touching my stomach. 

"I want to tell Wes," I blurt out. 

Greer frowns. "Shannon…" she says. "I don't think that's a good idea. Shouldn't you decide what to do first? I still think you should have an abortion. You can get it done at the Stoneybrook Health Clinic. You don't need parental consent either." 

"How do you know that?" I ask. 

"I read it in the pamphlet in your room." 

Oh. I forgot the pharmacist gave me that. 

"And if you have an abortion, there's really no need to tell him," Greer says. "He'll never know. I think that's for the best. Sally's right. You're only going to make things worse for him. I know you're scared, but do you really need to pull him further into this?" 

I bite my lip. I can't tell Greer all the things I'm thinking. All the things I'm hoping for. 

"Wes and I need to make this decision together. It's his baby, too. It's not all my fault, you know. He's partially responsible, too." 

"I know, but Shannon…you aren't going to win him back by having his baby. You're just going to screw up both your lives. I mean, if he even lives past the announcement that you're pregnant." 

"I want him to know." 

Greer frowns and rests her chin in her hand, propping her elbow on her knee. She gazes at me. She gazes at me like she's never seen me before. 

"Take me over there." 

"Okay," Greer agrees. "But we won't tell Sally." 

We check with Mrs. Carson that it's all right to leave Astrid in the backyard, then we go out to the garage and climb into Greer's Miata. We don't speak during the drive. I wring my hands in my lap, wondering what I should say to Wes. I can't think of anything beyond "I'm pregnant." Is there anything else that needs to be said? 

We pull into the Birch Street apartments parking lot. Wes' Volvo is still missing from its spot. I almost cry. Is he still hiding from me? Could he possibly be? 

"Will you go ask his neighbor if he's been around?" I ask Greer. We're sitting in a handicapped parking spot. I can see Wes' building from here. 

Greer cocks her head to the side and studies me. "All right," she finally says and turns off the engine. 

"Wes' apartment is number one-thirty-seven. Try the guy upstairs. His name is Mr. Prezzioso." 

"Okay," Greer says, unsurely, and climbs out of the car. 

I watch her walk away. She turns around a bend and disappears from sight. I wrap my arms around myself while I wait for her return. All I want is to find Wes. All I want is for him to make everything better. Greer comes into view a couple minutes later. Her face is expressionless. 

"Well?" I ask when she gets back in the car. 

"That guy said Wes hasn't been around for awhile. He's not supposed to say where he went," Greer answers, turning the key in the ignition. 

I can't believe it. Wes is still hiding at his parents' house! "We're going to Greenvale," I command. 

"No, we're not. I am not driving you out there." 

"Then I'll call him." 

"You can't do this over the phone!" Greer protests. 

"Yes, I can. Your mother has his parents' phone number." 

Greer sucks on her bottom lip, staring at me. She stares a long time. "All right," she finally says. "It's your decision." 

I nod. It is. It is my decision. 

Greer and I drive back to her house. Her family is still in the kitchen. I smell cookies baking. The scent makes me ill. Greer leads me into Mrs. Carson's office and locks the door behind us. She sits at her mother's desk and begins opening drawers. Finally, she pulls out a navy and gold-colored address book. She flips through its pages. 

"Here it is," she says, but when I try to look, Greer pulls the book away. "No. I'm not showing you the number. And I'm dialing." 

I nod and sit down across from Greer. I fold my hands in my lap and bite my lip. I watch Greer dial. 

"Hello?" she says when someone answers. "May I speak to Wesley Ellenburg?" she asks in a confident voice that does not betray her nervous expression. "This is…Ginger Carson," she says and slaps herself in the forehead. I don't think she intended to impersonate her mother. "Yes, I'll hold." 

I reach for the phone and hold it to my ear. I can hardly breath. My insides turn and shake. I may throw up. I wait and wait. I bite my lip so I won't cry. 

Wes finally comes on the line. "Hello? Mrs. Carson?" he says, sounding very confused. 

I can't speak. 

"Mrs. Carson?" 

"Please don't hang up!" I cry. 

There's a short pause. "Shannon?" he says, warily. 

"Yes. It's me." 

"How did you get this number?" he demands. 

"I have to tell you something. It's very important." 

"I think I'm already painfully aware of what you have to tell me," Wes replies. 

Oh, dear Lord. The lice. 

"That's not it." 

"You need to leave me alone. I'm hanging up." 

"I'm pregnant!" 

Silence. 

It wears on. 

And on. 

I hear Wes's breath on the other end. Barely there. Barely breathing. 

"I don't believe you." 

He hangs up. 


	54. Chapter 54

Wes doesn't call all weekend. 

I wait and I wait, but the call never comes. The call doesn't come saying, _I believe you. Let's talk about this. I'll come to you._ That's all I want. Right now, that's all I want. But I don't get it. It never comes. 

I look awful still. Tiffany and Maria both point the fact out to me while we drive to school Monday morning. Maria's slightly more polite about it than Tiffany. But manners no longer matter. Nothing does. 

Amanda Kerner grabs me as I walk to World literature. She grabs my arm and jerks me into an alcove. She beams at me and holds out a plain white envelope. 

"Congratulations!" she exclaims, as I take the envelope from her. She squeals and claps her hands. 

I stare at the envelope. "What is it?" I ask without curiosity. 

"Open it, silly!" 

I tear open the envelope and unfold the pale salmon-colored paper. I stare at it. 

Amanda doesn't notice my lack of enthusiasm. "The Senior Awards!" she cries, then drops her voice. "Of course, you don't know if you've won. You won't know until the yearbook comes out. But this is your appointment to have your photo taken," Amanda explains and points at the time written on the paper. "I'll take photos of the top three boy and girl nominees in each category. And of course, you can't know which category you've been nominated for. It's a surprise!" Amanda grins. Then she winks at me. "I'm sure you can figure it out." She places a finger to her lips. 

Most likely to succeed. 

I begin to cry. 

This pleases Amanda even more. "Oh, I knew you'd be excited! Now, don't tell anyone about your nomination. It has to be a secret. I'll see you during third period. Um…try to brush your hair and put on some make-up." Amanda rushes off, clutching a stack of white envelopes in her hand. 

I never make it to World lit. Or calculus. Instead, I lock myself in a stall in the girls' restroom. I sit on the toilet and cry awhile. When I can't cry anymore, I simply sit. I sit and stare at the stall door. Someone's written a dirty limerick about Bart Taylor on it. Probably Polly. It sounds like her work. The limerick must be new. Dr. Patek usually doesn't allow such things to linger around SDS. Dirty little blights on our school that tarnish our reputation. Like me. I won't be here much longer. Dr. Patek and the school board will make me leave. Girls don't get pregnant at SDS and stay very long. 

At ten-forty, I leave the restroom and walk to the yearbook room. I don't know why I bother. Greer and Karl are just coming out, grinning and laughing. 

"Hey, you too!" Karl cries and gives me a thumbs-up. 

Greer stops laughing. She sucks on her bottom lip. She doesn't know what to say. 

I say nothing and slip past her into the yearbook room. Amanda's the only person in there. She has a dark blue backdrop set up in front of the chalkboard with a chair positioned before it. She's wearing a camera around her neck. She grins when she sees me, but after a moment it flickers. 

"Um…your hair," she says. "Um…I have a brush…" Amanda hurries over to her backpack and unzips it. 

I sit down in the chair. "It's okay. I don't care." 

"It'll only take a second," Amanda says and comes over to me with the hairbrush. She brushes my hair back away from my face. She catches some tangles and pulls too hard. "Oops. Sorry about that. Are you sick? Maybe you have mono like Lindsey. You should get that checked out." 

"I'm fine," I lie. 

Amanda steps back to admire me. "Do you want to put on some make-up?" 

"No." 

Amanda knits her brow, perplexed. "Oh, okay," she says. "You look nice without it, too." She raises the camera and steps back further. "Smile!" 

I don't smile. 

The camera flashes. 

"Let me take a couple more," Amanda says. "I'm not the regular photographer and I know I'll screw this up. Hey, this is the last week of school, aren't you excited?" 

I shrug just as Amanda takes the second picture. 

"I can't wait for Christmas. Or for Shadow Lake. Of course, that's a couple weeks away still. I've never been during the winter. The softball team went up over the summer and we had a blast. Aren't you excited about that?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

Amanda frowns from behind her camera. She snaps a third picture, then lowers the camera. "Kristy said she was inviting you. We're going skiing after the New Year. Abby's going and I guess her twin. Oh, and some girl named Mary. Didn't Kristy ask you yet?" 

I shake my head and stand. "I'm not going," I tell Amanda. Even if I were speaking to Kristy, even if she were still my friend, I wouldn't go skiing with her. I won't go skiing with anyone. And Mary Anne's going? She can't possibly be over what happened so quickly. Or maybe she is. I don't know. 

"I hope you change your mind," Amanda says. She sounds sincere. "You look like you need a vacation." 

I'll try not to take that as an insult. I lift my messenger bag strap onto my shoulder. "Thanks, Amanda," I mumble and start toward the door. I pass Al Hall on my way out. I don't respond when he greets me. 

"Where have you been?" Sally asks when I slide into my chair in microbiology. 

"Nowhere," I answer and take out my notebook. I am dismayed to see that Kristy's seated on Sally's other side. Have they been talking about me? Would Sally tell her my secret? I narrow my eyes at Sally. I really don't know her at all. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sally asks, irritably. 

I lean over. "What have you guys been discussing?" I whisper. 

"Uh…the _homework_," Sally replies, flipping her packet to the first page. "Did you do yours?" 

"Yes," I say and open my notebook. The packet is folded inside. I give Sally another suspicious look. 

"You need to knock that off," Sally informs me, then turns to Kristy and resumes whatever conversation had been going on before I showed up. 

I know I should be embarrassed. Sally has been…nice…for Sally lately. I fold my arms on the table and lay my head down after we've handed in the homework. I half-listen to Dr. Clark's lecture. Sally and Kristy watch him and their notebooks intently, copying down the notes he writes on the board. This is their main concern right now. Microbiology class, that's what weighs on their minds. I wish it weighed on mine. I wish that's all that weighed. 

"Hey, Shannon," Kristy says, casually, when the bell rings and we're packing up our things. "We're taking this trip to – " 

"Shadow Lake," I cut in. "I heard." 

"Do you want to come?" 

"With you? No." I turn and walk away. 

Sally catches up with me. "Kat must really like you," she says. 

"She really likes to pester me." 

"She must really like you if she's so willing to forgive your constant rudeness. Man, Starshine, when _I_ think you're rude, that's pretty appalling." 

"You know what I'm dealing with right now," I snap. 

"Yes. I do, but Kat doesn't." 

"Since when are you on Kristy's side?" 

"I'm not on anyone's side. I'm neutral. I'm Switzerland. I like you. I like Kat. And I think you're being unfair to her. She wants to be your friend. You need friends right now." 

I can't believe Sally White is lecturing me about friends. "I don't need Kristy. I don't need a Thomas-Brewer. I have you. I have Greer. You'll do." I sit down at my desk and take out my Italian textbook. 

Sally pauses beside my desk and puckers her lips. "Oh, I'll _do_," she says. "Don't worry, given your current state of mind, I won't hold that against you." Sally passes and slides into her desk behind mine. She leans forward. "Have you made a decision?" 

"I'm waiting for Wes," I reply, softly. 

"Oh, God!" Sally cries much too loud. The entire class turns around. Signore Chancey gives us a sharp look. It's a good thing class has not yet begun. "You _told_ him?" she hisses. 

I nod. 

"And?" 

I bite my lip and close my eyes. "He didn't believe me," I answer in a whisper. 

"I don't blame him." 

"He'll come around." 

"Shannon…" 

Luckily, Signore Chancey calls the class to order and Sally can't finish. I work diligently the rest of the period, concentrating hard on the assignment. It takes my mind off other things. Sally doesn't bother me. Behind me, I hear her pencil scratching on her paper. Every so often, she snaps her gum. At least until Signore Chancey comes over and makes her spit it out into the wastebasket. These are the problems in Sally's life – microbiology notes, Italian translations, and getting caught chewing gum in class. When did my problems become so much bigger? So much bigger than myself? 

I avoid Sally and Greer during lunch by hiding in the library, losing myself in all the homework I still have to make up. When Ms. Shellback isn't looking, I choke down a granola bar. I can't manage to eat anything more. I'm constantly on the verge of throwing up. Throwing up and crying. These are my constant threats. 

Greer and Sally try to speak to me after school, but I blow them off. I have to get to the Stoneybrook Public library. That's the truth. I want to bury myself in all the homework I've dismissed for weeks. I want to bury myself and forget. 

It works to a degree. I make it through part of an assignment, then gradually, everything drifts back. I remember what I am hiding from. I remember what I am hiding. Once, I leave all my things on the table and go into the restroom, where I lock myself in a stall and sob for ten minutes. I don't want to be pregnant. I can't be pregnant. 

Maybe I'm not. 

The thought appears like a flicker. After all, I only took _two_ tests. I should take more. One might be negative. That one might tell the truth. Hurriedly, I cram my books into my messenger bag and practically run out of the library. It's dark outside and I trip on the library steps. I fall to my knees, but push myself up, hardly noticing. I sprint to my car and jump into the driver's seat. I check the clock on the dash. Five-thirty. The pharmacy doesn't close until six. 

It's a short drive to the pharmacy. I think I make it in less than thirty seconds. Of course, I'm driving about sixty miles an hour. I skid to a stop, parking crookedly in front of the pharmacy, taking up two spots. The lights are on inside and I see the female pharmacist behind the counter, shoving stuff into her purse. I hop out of the car and throw open the door to the pharmacy, nearly knocking over a white haired woman coming out. 

The pharmacist looks up. "We're closed," she tells me. 

"You don't close until six!" I protest. "I only need one thing!" I dart into the contraceptive aisle. 

"We're closing early. It's the first night of Hanukkah and Mrs. Hemphill has already made me late enough. I have to pick up my daughter, then drive all the way to Stamford to my in-laws'. You need to leave. You can come back tomorrow." 

I slide to a stop in front of the pregnancy tests. I find the test I bought on Friday. There are three on the shelf. I grab all three and rush up to the counter. "I _need_ to buy these," I tell the pharmacist, urgently. 

She peers at me over her glasses. "I already sold you two of these. What happened to them?" 

"They were defective! They said I'm pregnant!" 

"Then you're pregnant. Congratulations. Now, please leave. I've already closed the register and like I said, we're closed." 

"Do you have any more of these?" I ask, ignoring her comment. 

"Of course. There's an entire case in the back. Why?" 

"I'd like to buy it." 

The pharmacist stares at me. "You want to buy a case of pregnancy tests?" she repeats. 

"Yes." 

"There are thirty-six tests in a case." 

"One of them might be negative." 

The pharmacist continues to stare at me, expressionless. She smoothes the front of her violet sweater, then turns to her right. "Bernie!" she screams. "Get out here!" 

The male pharmacist appears. "Are you ready to leave?" he asks, then sees me and looks surprised. "Oh, hello." 

"This young lady," his wife says, looking at him, turned away from me, "would like to buy a case of pregnancy tests." 

It's his turn to stare at me. "Are you giving them out as gifts?" he asks. 

Everyone at this pharmacy thinks they're so funny. 

"She thinks that one of the tests might come out negative," his wife explains. 

He strokes his beard and stares at me still. "It doesn't work that way, you know," he says. 

"I can't be pregnant!" I shriek at them. 

"Well, you are," the woman says, briskly. "Now," she lays her hand over mine. It's colder than a block of ice. "you need to make an appointment at the Stoneybrook Health Clinic. You also need to speak to your mother and your boyfriend. I can't do anything else for you. It is time for you to leave." 

"Just sell me the pregnancy tests!" 

The woman's patience has worn out. "No," she says, firmly. "I've closed the register and besides, I am not selling you thirty-six pregnancy tests. Do you have any idea how much that would cost you? You could have an abortion for less." 

"Don't advise her to terminate her pregnancy!" the male pharmacist exclaims. 

"I'm not!" 

"You are! That's basically what you just said and frankly, it's rather unprofessional, Marian." 

"Are you calling me unprofessional?" 

"Will you two just shut the hell up and sell me the damn pregnancy tests?" I screech. 

Their mouths fall open. 

"No!" the woman bellows. She points to the door. "Please leave!" 

I point back at her, my finger in her face. "I cannot be pregnant," I tell her, choking back tears. 

She bats my finger away. "Get your finger out of my face! Go home and talk to your mother! You're wasting our time and ruining Hanukkah! My daughter is waiting!" 

"The girl who was in here the other day? Yes, I'm sure she'll be _thrilled_ to see you!" 

"Get out!" 

I grab one of the pregnancy tests off the counter. The pharmacist lunges forward and grabs the other end. I pull. She pulls. For such a skinny woman she's certainly strong. Finally, I let go and we both stumble backward. 

"I'm calling the police," her husband says. 

"Fine! I'll leave!" I shout. As an afterthought, I swipe the pregnancy tests off the counter onto the floor. Then I turn and start to walk away. The telephone rings and the male pharmacist answers. I hear him say, "Hello?...oh, hi, Jeanie…what do you mean remain calm?" Then I push through the front door and step out into the night. 

I'm crying as I back out onto Essex. I'm crying so hard I almost don't see the ambulance roaring toward me, lights flashing. I wipe my eyes and continue to cry the entire way home. What's wrong with me? Fighting with middle-aged pharmacists? Sticking my finger in their faces? When did this happen to me? I pull into the garage and sit awhile. I've stopped crying. I just sit. I sit and wonder how I got to this point in my life. I sit and wonder how to pull myself back up. I don't think Wes is going to save me. He thinks I am a liar. I _am_ a liar. I rest my hands on my stomach and close my eyes. I'm having his baby and he doesn't believe me. I need him and he doesn't believe me. 

I don't know what to do. 

Finally, I climb out of the car. I walk into the house through the laundry room. Tiffany and Maria are in the living room, sprawled across the couch with Astrid, staring at the television. They barely acknowledge me. I go upstairs, dragging my messenger bag behind me. I'm so tired. I'm so weak. I want someone to make everything better. That someone won't be Wes. Not now. Not until I can convince him to believe me. And even then, he may never want me again. I want someone right now. There isn't anyone. Not anyone good. 

"Mom?" I say, stopping in the doorway of her bedroom. 

Mom's bustling around, removing suits and dresses from their dry cleaning plastic. She's still dressed in her work clothes, a plum-colored miniskirt and white blouse with a plunging neckline. I guess those are work clothes. Mom doesn't notice me, or at least pretends she doesn't. 

"Mom?" I repeat. 

"What is it, Shannon?" she asks, exasperated. She doesn't stop to look at me. 

"I need to talk to you." 

"Fine. Talk." 

"I need to tell you something." 

I want to tell my mother. I want to tell my mother and have her magically transform into the mother I once had. 

"Fine. Go ahead." 

"Will you stop moving? Will you look at me?" 

Mom spins around and sighs. She crosses toward me and places her hands on her hips. "I'm looking at you," she says. 

I lose my nerve. I stare at the floor, at the points of Mom's black heels. 

"Well, what is it?" Mom asks, testily. 

I look up and stare at my mother. The words strangle in my throat. They strangle and die there. 

"Fine then," Mom says and whirls around. She starts to walk away. 

"I'm pregnant!" I shriek. I can't hold it in any longer. 

Mom freezes. She turns slowly back around. Then she raises her hand and slaps me hard across the face. "How could you do this to me, you little bitch?" she screams. "What are people going to say?" 

I press my palm to my stinging cheek. It stings like the tears in my eyes. "Well," I say, loud and clear, "at least you finally noticed me." 


	55. Chapter 55

"I hope you are aware that I've had to cancel a meeting and two appointments with clients this morning." 

"I know. You've mentioned it a couple times," I answer, leaning my head against the passenger side window of Mom's car. 

"Don't get smart with me, Shannon Louisa Kilbourne," Mom snaps. 

It's Tuesday morning, eight o' clock and we're on our way to Stoneybrook General. That's where Dr. Wallingford's office is located. Dr. Wallingford is Mom's gynecologist and I guess now he's mine, too. Mom called him at his home last night and after much ranting and raving on Mom's part, he agreed to squeeze me in first thing this morning. Mom always said it's good to have important friends. 

"Are you ready to tell me who did this to you?" Mom asks for the twentieth time since last night. 

"No." 

"He's going to pay for your abortion." 

"I don't want an abortion." 

"You don't have a choice." 

Mom pulls into the northside parking lot of Stoneybrook General. We don't walk together. Mom doesn't put her arm around my shoulders and her hand on my back. She walks in front of me, like she doesn't really know me. And she doesn't. Not really. 

Inside Dr. Wallingford's office, Mom signs me in and the receptionist hands me a clipboard with forms to fill out. Mom and I sit down in the waiting room with a chair between us. We stack our coats and purses there. It's a physical, tangible barrier to match the unseen one between us, the one that has built up slowly over the years until it became so high we can't see over onto the other's side. I wish I had another mother. I wish I had anyone else for a mother. 

Mom helps me fill out the paperwork. She does so rather testily like I'm supposed to know on my own if our family has a history of high blood pressure and diabetes. She checks her watch a lot. I am such an inconvenience. We wait for forty-five minutes, much to Mom's displeasure, before a nurse calls me back. Surprisingly, Mom follows. She leans against a wall inside the office while the nurse draws my blood, weighs me, and takes my blood pressure. Then Mom and I are led into an exam room. The nurse gives me a paper gown and instructs me to strip completely. She says Dr. Wallingford will be in shortly, then she leaves. 

I change out of my jeans and sweater and hand them to Mom, who folds them and sets them on the counter. Then I slip out of my panties and bra, too, and put on the gown. I sit on the exam table and wait. I want to cry. I want to throw up. Mom checks her watch. I can't do either in front of my mother. So, I bite my lip and hold it all in. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Wallingford comes in. He's older than I expected, probably late-fifties, maybe even sixty. He's not very tall and doesn't have much hair. What he does have is in frizzy white tufts. I notice his hands are very big. That scares me. 

"Hello, Kathy," he greets Mom, warmly, and shakes her hand. 

"Thank you for fitting us in, Jim," Mom says, sweetly. "I'd like to get this little problem taken care of as soon as possible." 

"Of course," he says and turns to me. "And you're Shannon." He holds out his hand. I shake it limply. "All right, let's see what we have here." Dr. Wallingford sits down on a stool beside the exam table and picks up a clipboard off the counter. It's the paperwork I filled out in the waiting room. He flips through the forms and begins reviewing the information with me. He asks about my menstrual cycle and how late I am. Behind him, Mom checks her watch. 

"And you've taken two pregnancy tests and both were positive?" Dr. Wallingford asks. 

"Yes," I answer, softly. 

"Okay," he says and lays the clipboard back on the counter. "I'm going to do a breast exam and then we'll begin the pelvic exam." He stands up and comes closer to me. "Lie back, please. I'm going to put my hand inside your gown, all right?" 

I nod and lie back onto the table. 

"I apologize if I have cold hands," he says and slips his right hand inside the front of the paper gown. His hands aren't that cold after all. But it's still awkward and uncomfortable, his fingers feeling my breasts. "Do you give yourself breast exams?" he asks. 

"No." 

"You should. I'll give you some information about self-examinations before you leave," he says and moves his hands away. "Now for the pelvic exam. Let me get my nurse." He crosses to the exam room door and peeks out into the hallway. "Can you come in here, please?" he asks someone. 

A nurse slips into the room. She's early-twenties, tiny with yellow-blonde hair parted down the center. She's wearing very cheery scrubs. Red pants with a white scrub top that has red and pink hearts all over it. She looks like a Valentine. It makes me want to cry. 

"Shannon, this is my nurse, Chelsea. She'll stay in the room during the exam." 

"Hello, Shannon," the nurse chirps and comes to stand on my right. 

My head rolls to the right so I can look up with her. Oh, dear Lord. Is this _the_ Chelsea? The infamous nurse Chelsea who slept with the entire male ER staff and broke Wes' heart? Can there possibly be many nurses named Chelsea working at Stoneybrook General? Oh, dear Lord. Another girl who broke Wes' heart standing right here beside me, smiling down at me. I would ask her if Mom wasn't here. 

Chelsea covers my lap with a cloth and Dr. Wallingford instructs me to slide my feet into the stirrups at the end of the table and scoot down. I follow his instructions while biting my lip. I've never felt so exposed. And the casual, cheerful way Dr. Wallingford and his nurse give all their instructions really doesn't help. 

Dr. Wallingford sits back down on his stool. I hear his latex gloves snap on. "Relax, Shannon," he tells me. "This will only take a few minutes. Keep your knees bent, please. Try to relax. Now, I'm going to do a quick external exam first. I'm just going to…" 

His voice drones on. I stop listening. All I am aware of is his fingers poking at me. I can barely see Mom at the other end of the room. I see part of her head. I bet she's checking her watch. She should be holding my hand. 

When Dr. Wallingford holds up a metal duckbill-looking instrument, I almost scream. 

"You're not putting that inside me!" I cry. 

"Yes," he answers, simply. "This is a speculum. I'll insert it inside your vagina and open it to separate the vaginal walls. It will allow me to view your cervix. Do you know what your cervix is?" 

No. 

"Yes." 

"All right. There will be very little discomfort," he says and I feel the speculum going inside me. 

I move my knees together. 

"Knees to the sides, please, Shannon." 

I move them closer together. 

"You need to relax," says Dr. Wallingford. "Move your knees apart and relax. If you're too tense, I can't finish the exam." 

That's the point. 

"It's not that bad," Chelsea assures me. 

"Oh, for God's sake," Mom cries in exasperation. She stands and crosses toward me. She comes to stand on my left. "God, Shannon, it's not like it's going into uncharted territory!" 

Chelsea's eyes sort of bug out. 

"No, no. It's completely understandable, Kathy," Dr. Wallingford tells Mom. "This isn't unusual. Take a few deep breaths, Shannon." 

I take the breaths. They don't help. I keep my knees clamped together. 

"You're being ridiculous," Mom informs me. She grabs my left knee and jerks it to the side. "It's not like this is the first time you've spread your legs for a man." 

Chelsea's jaw drops for a moment. Then she takes my other knee and pulls it gently to the side. 

"Now, Kathy, that isn't necessary," Dr. Wallingford says, lightly, and I have to wonder if anything bothers him too much. "Perhaps it is best to hold her knees apart though. Are you all right, Shannon?" 

No. 

"Yes." 

The speculum slides inside me. I continue biting my lip. Mom doesn't look at me. She watches Dr. Wallingford. Chelsea catches me catching her gazing at me pityingly. She turns and watches Dr. Wallingford, too. I'm glad they're looking away because then they don't notice the tears leaking from my eyes. 

Dr. Wallingford takes a Pap smear and I pretend to know what that is. Then he uses a cotton swab to take a sample for STD testing. When he removes the speculum, he begins another exam. He presses one hand on my abdomen and with his other hand, slips his fingers inside me. He explains he's checking my uterus and ovaries. I wonder if he can feel my baby. I feel too stupid to ask. 

"Well?" Mom asks when Dr. Wallingford has finished. 

He removes his gloves and tosses them into the wastebasket. "Well…I don't want to say anything for certain until we get the results of the blood test," he answers. 

I sit up. "What? Then why did I just go through all that?" I demand. "Can't you tell?" 

"It's a little early to tell conclusively. You're only a few weeks along." 

"So, she _is_ pregnant?" Mom asks. 

"Yes," he says. "With two positive pregnancy tests and the pelvic exam, I have to say, yes. Of course, we can't be one hundred percent certain until we hear from the lab." 

"When will that be? Today?" Mom wants to know. 

Dr. Wallingford turns to Chelsea. "Go call out to the lab. See if we can get the results by this afternoon," he tells her, then turns back to Mom and I. "Yes," he says. 

Chelsea smiles vaguely at me and slips out of the room. I'm sorry I didn't get to ask her if she is Wes' Chelsea. I don't know why it matters. But she doesn't look like a slut. But then, I don't necessarily look like all the things I've become either. 

"Should we make the appointment for her abortion today?" Mom asks Dr. Wallingford. 

He finally looks surprised by something Mom has said. He turns to me. "Is that what you want, Shannon?" he asks me. 

I shrug. 

"There are counselors at the Stoneybrook Health Clinic who can help you make an informed decision. You and your mother should make an appointment with them. They'll go over all your options with you." 

"Jim, I really don't have time for that," Mom tells him. "This has come at the worst possible time. There is no option but an abortion. She won't even tell me who did this to her. She may not even know." 

"I know who he is!" I exclaim and wrap my arms around myself. I won't cry. 

"Well, where is he now?" Mom demands, then turns back to Dr. Wallingford. "She doesn't need parental consent, right? I don't need to sign anything or be there, right?" 

I almost cry. She isn't going to go with me? I have to do this by _myself_? 

"Sadly, parental consent is not required," Dr. Wallingford answers and he really does look sad about it. "Kathy, let's step into the hall and allow Shannon to dress. We can talk." He holds the door open for Mom. They leave. 

I sit on the exam table in my paper gown and cry. 

"Why won't you go with me?" I ask Mom when we're in the car. 

"Go with you where?" Mom asks. 

"To get an abortion." 

"Because my flight leaves tonight." 

Startled, I glance over at her. Her flight? Where is she going? "What are you talking about?" I ask. 

Mom sighs. "Honestly, Shannon, do you ever listen to anything anyone tells you? The agency's annual meeting in Hawaii. We go every December. You know that. Reg already paid everyone's airfare and hotel expenses. I'm not missing out on a free trip to Hawaii just because you didn't make some horny teenage boy put on a condom!" 

"He wore a condom! He wore one every time!" 

"I figured it happened more than once. Is this why you forgot to pay the electric bill? You were busy mating like a rabbit in the backseat of some boy's car?" Mom replies. "Now you can't have an abortion at the Stoneybrook Health Clinic. Who knows who might see you? I'll make an appointment for you at the clinic in Stamford. Someone will have to drive you, I suppose. Ask Greer or that Stevenson girl. I want this taken care of by the time I get back." Mom pulls to a stop at the light on Main Street. "Now, are you hungry? We can stop and get you something to go at Renwick's." 

Am I hungry? _Am I hungry?_ She orders me to kill my baby, then offers me an early lunch? I stare at her, my mouth agape. "Who _are_ you?" I demand. 

Mom stares back at me. "What are you talking about?" 

"You're supposed to be my mother!" 

"Well, I'm a little tired of being a mother," Mom snaps. "I am more than that, you know. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to have my own life. Excuse me for not being fulfilled sitting around the house, twiddling my thumbs, and waiting for you and your sisters to acknowledge me with more than an eye roll or look of exasperation. You don't need me, Shannon, you made that clear long ago." 

"I need you now!" 

"Well, it's a little too late," Mom replies and slams her foot on the gas, sending us sailing through the intersection. 

At home, I lie down on my bed while Mom calls the clinic in Stamford. I listen to her make my appointment. Then I listen to her packing her suitcase. Packing to leave me like everyone else. She'll go to Hawaii. She'll go to a luau. She'll drink a mai tai. She'll scuba dive and learn to surf. I'll stay home and have an abortion. 

My phone rings at exactly twelve-thirty. I know who it is. 

"Hello, Greer," I say into the receiver. 

"Shannon, where are you?" Greer asks. 

"I had to go see Dr. Wallingford. He's a gynecologist." 

"I go to him, too!" Greer cries, like it's a great coincidence. "Isn't he nice? His hair cracks me up. Oh…why did you have to see him?" 

"Mom made me go. I told her last night. About the baby." 

"What did she say?" 

"She slapped me." 

Greer gasps. I hear her hand cover the receiver and the faint hum of whispers. She's telling Sally. Do I have no secrets from either anymore? I guess it doesn't matter. 

Greer comes back on the line. "So, is it definite that you are…?" 

"The blood test hasn't come back yet, but Dr. Wallingford pretty much confirmed it. Mom made me an appointment to have an abortion. She says I have to do it. She's leaving for Hawaii tonight. I'm not supposed to be pregnant when she comes back." 

There's a long silence on the other end. 

"Omigawsh," Greer finally gasps. "You know what? Come over to my house this evening and you can talk to my mom. She's really good with this type of thing. And she won't slap you. I promise." 

"No thanks," I reply, even though I like Mrs. Carson and have known her all my life. 

"Well…think about it, okay?" Greer says. "Oh, Sally wants to talk to you." 

I hear the phone exchange hands. 

"Are you all right?" Sally asks. "Is that a stupid question?" 

I actually laugh. 

"Your mom's a bitch," Sally informs me in that matter-of-fact way of hers. 

"I know," I say, quietly. "What did I miss so far at school?" I almost miss being there. 

"You missed me almost murdering Meg Jardin. I had to partner with her during Italian. She spent the entire period blubbering about how her mom won't let her go to some dance at Stoneybrook High because girls get pregnant at dances or something. Oh, sorry about that. But Meg's boyfriend invited some other girl and Meg's upset about it, but didn't tell him. Instead she told me. Again and again. And you know the most annoying part? That twit speaks better Italian than me." 

"Sally, I don't think Shannon wants to hear about that now," I hear Greer say. 

"No, it's okay," I insist. "What else happened today?" 

"Kat's absent," Sally replies. "Abigross told me that some friend of Pigtail's died last night and Kat went to be with her. With Pigtails, not the dead girl." 

My heart stops. "Who died?" I gasp. "Was it Stacey McGill?" Stacey's a diabetic. I think she almost died a couple years ago. 

"Uh…" I hear Sally whisper something to Greer that's inaudible. "No," Sally says to me. "Greer says it wasn't Stacey. Whoever Stacey is. Some other girl. Abigross said she - Abby, that is - didn't know her too well." 

Oh, then it's no one I know. "That's too bad," I say and wonder if I should call Mary Anne, even though she told me to stay away from her. 

I talk to Sally for a while longer and then to Greer again. When we hang up, I wonder when they became my only friends. I wonder when Sally White became my friend at all. But I guess that's what she is. And Greer…now all my earlier reasons for being angry with her seem stupid and shallow. She called me a prude. But she apologized. I didn't listen. She went on a date with Mick. But she did it to make me mad. It was petty and silly, but…I guess I may be petty and silly, too. 

Mom comes into my room. She holds out a piece of white paper. It's letterhead from the real estate agency. "This is your appointment. I wrote down the time and address. You'll go on Friday afternoon. You have to have some sort of counseling session, where they'll probably try to talk you out of it. Don't listen. You'll be there several hours. I don't know why it'll take so long. I want you to make the boy give you the money. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Get it from him." 

I stare down at the paper. I am numb. 

"I have to go to Bellair's," Mom informs me. "Last minute shopping before my flight. Do you need anything while I'm out?" 

I shake my head. 

"Don't lose that," Mom says, then turns and leaves. 

I curl up on my bed and sob until I fall asleep. When I open my eyes, it's several hours later. When I open my eyes, the paper is staring back at me. I bite my lip so I don't cry again. Then I fold the paper and slip it into my wallet. 

There's a knock on my door. 

"Come in," I call out and for some reason, I actually hope it's Mom. 

It isn't. 

"Hey," Tiffany says, poking her head in. 

"Hello," I answer, dully. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed with my hands on my knees. I'm not doing anything at all. 

Tiffany steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. "Is it true?" she asks. 

"Is what true?" 

"That you're pregnant." 

I don't have the energy for any sort of reaction. "Yes," I confirm. I am very tired. 

"Mom told me. She said she thought it would be me." 

"I guess I beat you to it." 

Tiffany sits down next to me on the bed. "Mom says you're having an abortion." 

I shrug. 

"We won't tell Maria," Tiffany says, then she slips her arm around me. 


	56. Chapter 56

Tiffany waits for me at my locker on Wednesday afternoon. I guess we're sisters again. It's nice. I didn't even have to ask for forgiveness. Tiffany simply offered it without words. I don't know if I am capable of that. Maybe I should be. 

We push through the front doors out into the overcast afternoon, stepping cautiously on the steps covered in slush, the remainders of yesterday's snow. Greer and Abby stand further down the steps, talking. Greer opens her binder and hands some papers to Abby. I frown, wondering if this is more cheating. Then I remind myself that considering everything, perhaps I no longer have room to judge. 

"What were you and Abby discussing?" I ask Greer when Tiffany and I stop beside her. Abby has disappeared into the parking lot with Amanda Kerner. 

"I was giving her Kristy's English assignment," Greer replies and I think she suspects why I'm really asking. "Abby's collecting all of Kristy's homework since Kristy missed school again today. You know, to go to that funeral with Mary Anne." 

"Oh, yeah," I say and feel embarrassed for jumping to conclusions. 

Tiffany touches my shoulder. "I'm going to say goodbye to Tyler, okay?" she says, then hurries off down the sidewalk, sliding on the slush. 

I slip my hands into the pockets of my coat. "So…are you and Kristy friends again?" I ask Greer. 

Greer shrugs. "I think this stupidness has gone on long enough," she answers. "Why did Kristy and I even stop speaking? Who cares? It's just dumb." 

I don't say anything. 

"Why? Are you mad?" Greer asks. 

"No. You can be friends with Kristy, if you want." 

"Good. I think you should make up with her, too. I know Sally's told you the same thing. Despite how childish you've behaved toward her, for whatever reason, Kristy's still trying to be your friend. Eventually, she's going to stop trying. I mean, I know Kristy's annoying and immature and kind of self-righteous, but really, her heart is in the right place. I've told you before, I think she did what she did because she's your friend, not to hurt you." 

I shrug. 

Greer frowns. "Okay, I'm telling you the truth here because I think you need to hear it. As much as you criticize Kristy for being judgmental and self-righteous, well, you're sort of like that, too. You just do it in subtler ways. Kristy thinks everyone should agree with her opinions and you're the same way." 

"I don't know how you can compare me to Kristy!" I cry. 

Greer tilts her head to the side and continues to frown. "You're really controlling, Shannon. I mean, you always have been. You have this idea of what's best for everyone and you try your hardest to make certain others follow your plan for them. And when someone doesn't, you get mad. You think you're always right. But you can't be right all the time. Isn't that sort of what happened between you and Kristy? And you and Kristy's mom? They took away your control and proved that you were in the wrong. And isn't that also what happened between you and poor Mrs. Bryar? I mean, come on, Shannon! The woman who cleans your house disagrees with you and you go nuts on her?" 

I bite my lip. I shouldn't have told Greer about that. "Do you have a point, Greer?" I ask because I honestly don't understand what she's getting at. 

Greer sighs. "I just…I think you try to be a good friend, just like Kristy tries to be a good friend. And I think Kristy – smug as she may sometimes be – her intentions are genuine. But you, Shannon, I think that…not always…but sometimes, there's a certain amount of ego-stroking involved for you. You like being in charge. You like bending others to your will. I know I've not always been the greatest friend, but really, Shannon, neither have you." Greer hugs her binder tight to her chest and watches me a moment. "Just think about what I said. I'll call you later." Greer turns and walks off toward the parking lot. 

I stare after her, my hands warming in my pockets. I start to brush away her words, but then wonder if perhaps Greer could have a valid point. After all, much like Sally White, Greer has turned out to be a better person than I originally gave her credit for. Greer wouldn't intentionally hurt me. Not now. And she wouldn't lie. 

At home, Tiffany and I pick up around the house. Still no one has hired a new cleaning lady. Mom hasn't said anything about it. Of course, Mom is gone now. She's living it up in Hawaii with her co-workers and her twenty-four year old boyfriend. And I am here. I am here with everything resting on my shoulders. I load the dishwasher, biting my lip very hard, so I won't cry. 

And while I clean and put the house back in order, I think about what Greer said. I may not completely agree with her, but still…there may be some truth in there. I don't think Kristy and Elizabeth purposely set out to wreck my life. I don't think there was any malicious intent there. Maybe I've always known. Maybe Greer was right. Maybe I was really just angry with myself. 

I tell Tiffany where I'm going and head across the street. I don't really think about it. I just go. There's a churning in my stomach, heavy and sick, and I pause before stepping onto the curb, thinking I may throw up. I take a breath and continue on the way to Kristy's house. I ring the bell. Thankfully, Emily Michelle answers instead of Karen. She tells me Kristy's upstairs. 

Kristy's bedroom door is shut. I knock. 

"Come in," Kristy calls. 

I open the door slowly and peek in. 

Kristy's seated on her bed, flipping through a stack of papers. She's dressed in dark gray slacks and a lighter gray sweater with a thin gray headband in her hair. When she looks up, her eyes narrow suspiciously. I don't blame her. 

"May I come in?" I ask, quietly from the doorway. 

"I suppose," Kristy answers and sets the papers aside. "I was just looking through the homework Abby brought me." 

"Oh," I say and sit down in Kristy's desk chair. "How was the funeral?" I ask. 

"Sad." 

"How's Mary Anne?" 

"She's really upset, of course," Kristy replies. "Mary Anne and I, we knew Emily basically all our lives, although I'd never really been friends with her. But Mary Anne, they'd been close. Mary Anne feels really guilty now. You know how grumpy and mad Mary Anne's been the last few weeks. She hadn't exactly been speaking to Emily, I guess. So, now, she feels guilty." Kristy looks down at her hands, which rest on her knees. "Stacey was there. I didn't talk to her though. I didn't know what to say. Stacey looked pretty awful. I feel terrible for her. I feel the worst for Emily's parents though. I know that pretty much everyone dislikes them, but I've never thought they were so bad." 

"How did she die?" 

"She mixed her asthma medication with sleeping pills or something. A bad reaction, I guess. It's especially sad since her parents are – " 

We're interrupted by the door opening. Karen pops her head in. She opens her mouth to speak. 

"Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it, Karen!" Kristy yells and tosses a pillow at the door. Karen shuts the door before it hits her. "I can't wait for her to go home to Chicago. She's gotten so annoying," Kristy says, then sighs. "It's really weird to think that someone I know is dead. I mean, I hardly knew her, really, and I never saw her. I hadn't seen her since Homecoming and before that…I guess it was the Hamptons." 

I cock my head to the side, perplexed for a moment. "Oh, right, the Hamptons." 

"Yeah, you missed out. I'm sure Boston with Mick and his parents was so much more fun," Kristy says, kind of sarcastically. "I told you that was a mistake." 

I ignore her last comment. "Was this the girl with the lunatic mother in the lingerie?" I ask. 

Kristy laughs. "No, that was Grace Blume's mother. Man, that woman can run." Kristy laughs again. 

We fall silent. 

"So, why are you here?" Kristy asks, bluntly. I'm surprised she contained herself so long. 

I shrug. 

"Have you come to yell at me some more or to apologize? I really can't take yelling right now, but I'll accept your apology if you wish to offer it." 

Kristy can be so obnoxious. 

I bite my tongue though before something nasty slips past my lips. Kristy is Kristy. I should be grateful that she's so easily willing to accept anything I have to offer. 

"I've been talking a lot with Sally and Greer," I start, folding my hands over my knee. "And they think I've been unnecessarily rude to you. I think they may be right." 

"Is that an apology?" 

I bite my tongue a few seconds more before I feel able to speak. "Yes. I am sorry, Kristy. I shouldn't have been so cruel to you…or to your mom. As much as I wish you'd stayed out of things, I guess you didn't do it to hurt me. You thought you were helping." 

Kristy frowns. "I _was_ helping," she says. "You were acting like a fool." 

I frown back at her. 

"Well, you were," she tells me. "And you wouldn't listen. Plus, you really hurt me, Shannon. You were one of my closest friends and all that time you were lying to me. You lied and broke promises and you just became someone else. Someone I didn't like very much. And I tried to talk to you, but you just blew me off. You didn't want to hear what I had to say. Plus, you were really mean to my mom. She didn't deserve that. And…after the last time you were here…she told me what you said about Sam." 

There's a moment of silence as her words hang in the air between us. 

Kristy shifts uncomfortably. "Obviously. Sam wasn't the brother I thought he was. Or that he used to be. I guess I should have figured that out before he took off. He's just like my dad." Kristy pauses and takes a couple breaths. Her eyes are sad. "I'm sorry for what he did to Tiffany. I mean, it's kind of her fault, too, but she is only fifteen. I'm kind of mad at her, but I'll get over that. I guess." 

I nod, not knowing what to say. I came over to talk, but I can't speak at all. I stare down at my lap, choking on the tears that are always there. 

"Are we friends again?" Kristy asks. "I still want to be your friend. As long as you don't lie to me anymore. Or make cruel remarks about my mom." 

I nod. 

"Are you okay?" 

I shake my head. I start to cry. 

"Shannon? What's wrong?" Kristy asks, alarmed. 

I wipe my eyes. "If I tell you something, will you not judge me?" 

"You did something worse than sleep with a teacher?" 

I cry harder. 

"Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to say that out loud!" Kristy says in a rush. "What's wrong? I won't judge you." Kristy stands and brings me a box of tissues off the night table, then she sits down on the bed again. 

I wipe my eyes and nose with a tissue. "Greer and Sally already know," I begin, crumpling the tissue in my hand. "So do Tiffany and my mom." I don't make it any farther. 

"Yes?" Kristy prompts. 

"I'm pregnant," I whisper. 

"You _are_?" Kristy exclaims. 

I nod. 

Kristy jumps up and hurries over to me. She bends down and hugs me. 

"Is it Mr. Ellenburg's?" Kristy asks. 

"Of course!" I snap. Does she think I'm a slut? 

"Oh, of course," Kristy says. "Oh. Wow. I'm sorry, Shannon." Kristy releases me and stands again. She sits back down on the bed. "Does he know?" 

"I told him, but he didn't believe me." 

"What a jerk." 

"No…he's a good man," I reply, squeezing the tissue harder. "I'm waiting for him to come around. I think he might. Maybe." I bite my lip. 

"I hope you don't expect him to marry you," Kristy says, matter-of-factly. "You don't want to turn out like Sam and Janet!" 

I scowl at her, briefly. Wes and I would never be like Sam and Janet! 

Kristy's voice softens. "Are you keeping it? Or are you putting it up for adoption?" 

I study my hands. "Mom made me an appointment to have an abortion," I whisper. 

"You can't kill your baby!" Kristy exclaims, horrified. 

I cry. 

Kristy catches herself. "Oh, Shannon, I'm sorry. I know, I said I wouldn't judge. I wasn't thinking. I just…you know I think abortion is wrong. I thought you thought so, too." 

"I do," I reply. "Or I did. I don't know what I think anymore. Mom says I have to have one." 

"She can't force you," Kristy points out. 

I shrug. "I wanted to make the decision with Wes, but he hung up on me. Now I don't know what to do. Mom, Greer, and Tiffany all say I should have an abortion. Now you say I shouldn't. And Sally apparently has no opinion at all, which is a first." 

"Well…this is really something you should decide on your own. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. It's your decision, Shannon. I guess I don't really know what I would do in your situation either. Sometimes we surprise ourselves when we make a mistake." Kristy stares down at her hands, fanning them out. She doesn't speak for a while. "Whatever you decide, Shannon," she finally says, "I'll support you because you're my friend. I'll even go with you, if you want." 

"Thank you," I reply, managing to hide my surprise. How can Kristy be so kind to me when all I've been is nasty to her? And not just since she learned about Wes and I, but before, too. I haven't been a very good friend for a long time. I haven't been the friend Kristy deserves. Kristy, Abby, and I used to be so tight. I wonder if we'll ever have that again. I don't think things will ever be the same. And Anna…I've hardly given her a thought in weeks. Everything has changed. 

"I promise I won't tell Mom," Kristy says, suddenly. 

I manage a weak smile. 

"You could talk to her about this though. If you wanted to. You don't have a very good mom," Kristy says as tactlessly as possible. "I'm sorry, but that's the truth and everyone knows it. She shouldn't force you to have an abortion. That isn't right. She should give you time to sort this out. My mom could help you with that. I know you have some kind of hang up about adults, but honestly, Shannon, has keeping adults out of your life really helped very much?" 

I shake my head. 

"Well, think about it then," Kristy says. 

I nod. 

"I'm glad we're friends again," Kristy tells me, sincerely. "I'm glad that you trusted me with something so important. I know it's hard to admit mistakes to other people. And I know it can be especially difficult to admit them to me." 

I smile and wipe my eyes. "I'm sorry I lied to you all those times and I'm sorry I was so mean. To you and to Elizabeth. Will you tell her I'm sorry?" I don't think I can talk to Elizabeth yet. I don't know if I want to. 

Kristy understands. "Sure. I'll tell her when she gets home from work." 

"Thanks." 

Kristy and I talk a little longer, then she walks me downstairs to the front door. She hugs me. She hugs me very tight. I almost cry again. I can't believe how awful I've been to people who actually care about me. I've been blind. And now I'm paying for it. 

I walk across the street toward my house, slowing as I near. There's a strange car parked in the driveway. A navy blue Saab. My first thought is, _dear Lord, some moron at the DMV gave Sally White a driver's license_ because Sally's always talking about buying a Saab since her mother's Swedish. But there's no way anyone could be so foolish to give Sally White permission to drive freely through the streets of Stoneybrook and the rest of the country. 

I enter the house. I hear Maria's voice coming from the formal living room, chattering away incessantly. A sense of dread fills me. Who could Maria possibly be speaking to? Do I even want to know? I smooth my school sweater and comb through my hair with my fingers. I leave the foyer, walking toward the formal living room. I pause in the doorway. Maria's seated on the couch, still in uniform, arms spread over the back cushion, yakking excitedly. At the other end of the room, in the armchair, sits a tall, slender woman with short, perfectly coifed white hair, sweeping over her left eye. She wears a dark plum-colored pantsuit and chunky jade jewelry. 

Wes' mother. 


	57. Chapter 57

"Hello, Shannon." 

I cannot speak. I stand frozen in the doorway, staring at Mrs. Ellenburg. She stares back without expression, revealing nothing, absently running the fingers of her right hand over the rim of a glass on the coffee table. There's a lipstick mark on its edge. Mrs. Ellenburg continues to stare, dark eyes cold and piercing. I want the floor to open and swallow me whole. I want to escape those eyes. 

"I said hello." 

"Hello, Mrs. Ellenburg," I reply, so quietly I am uncertain if my voice carries across the room. 

Mrs. Ellenburg lifts her fingers from the glass rim and moves her hand to her lap, folding it there very primly, sitting perfectly straight in the armchair. She looks regal and queenly, seated on a throne in a house that is not hers. And yet, I feel like the intruder, the outsider, shrinking within her sight. I am frightened. I am sickened. 

"Maria…" I begin, softly, "please go upstairs and start your homework." 

"I already finished," Maria tells me. 

"Go upstairs, Maria." 

Maria makes a face at me, but stands. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Ellenburg," she says to Wes' mother. 

Mrs. Ellenburg smiles. "It was wonderful meeting you, Maria," she says. "Thank you for the water. Good luck with the entomology club." 

Mrs. Ellenburg's smile drops as soon as Maria disappears from the room. I wonder what Maria's doing letting strangers in the house, offering them refreshments, and then sitting around for a chat. I wonder who she thinks Mrs. Ellenburg is. I don't have much time to wonder, or much ability, as I am now alone with Mrs. Ellenburg and am afraid. Perhaps, I should not have sent Maria away after all. 

"Please sit," Mrs. Ellenburg tells me, gesturing toward the couch like this is her home. 

I sit, obediently, sitting straight like Mrs. Ellenburg, feet firmly planted on the floor. I lower my eyes from her gaze. 

"Wesley doesn't know I'm here," Mrs. Ellenburg says. "I got your address from Ginger Carson. Of course, I didn't tell her the real reason I needed it." Mrs. Ellenburg leans back slightly in the chair, resting a hand on each armrest. "Ginger has nothing but lovely compliments for you. Star student, responsible, clever, hardworking, a true friend. It was like hearing about a completely different girl. Who is the real Shannon?" 

I'm uncertain if she expects an answer. I shrug. 

She appears satisfied. "Ginger had a lot to say about your family. Especially about your parents. It was very enlightening. Of course, Wesley had told me some rather interesting things as well. I must say, everything makes a little more sense now. I wondered how you could do such a horrible, selfish thing, but I think now I may understand." Mrs. Ellenburg shifts her eyes around the room, as if the answers are on the walls, in the air, all around. "I partially blame myself. I should have checked up on you a lot sooner. When you said your father drinks for a living that sent off alarms in my head. And when you said you didn't know if you planned to remain in Stoneybrook much longer that worried me. I knew you were young and worried that perhaps you were a bit too young for the relationship Wesley so desperately seemed to want with you. Of course, I never dreamed just how young you actually are. It's quite unnerving seeing you in that school uniform." 

"I'm sorry," I whisper. 

Mrs. Ellenburg stares at me a moment. I look away. 

"My Wesley is petrified that you're actually pregnant," Mrs. Ellenburg says, bluntly. "Are you?" 

I shake my head. I don't know why. It's all I can do. 

"No," I lie. 

Mrs. Ellenburg watches me, then closes her eyes. She rubs her right temple. "Why don't I believe you?" she asks. 

Because I am a liar. 

I shrug. 

"Are you pregnant?" 

I nod. 

Mrs. Ellenburg continues to rub her temple. "Oh, my God," she says. Then she laughs. It's airy and strange. "Oh, my God," she says again. 

I fold my arms across my stomach, protecting myself. 

"I have to ask," Mrs. Ellenburg says to me, "are you certain Wesley is the father?" 

I almost cry. "Of course!" I reply, choking the tears back. "I was a virgin when I met him. I've never been with anyone else!" 

Mrs. Ellenburg holds up a hand. "I really don't need any details," she informs me. She purses her lips. "Wesley is under the impression that you gave him pubic lice." 

Does Wes keep any secrets from his mother? He's as bad as Maria. 

Mrs. Ellenburg reads my mind. "Wesley didn't tell me. The Skipper did. Did you give my son pubic lice?" 

"Yes," I answer, meekly. "I got them from my sister. My other sister." 

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt," Mrs. Ellenburg replies. "Have you been to the doctor? Are you sure you're pregnant?" 

I nod. "I had a blood test." 

"Did you do this on purpose?" 

"Did I do what on purpose?" 

"Get pregnant, of course. Wesley claims he was very careful. Was this truly an accident? Please don't lie to me, Shannon. You've lied enough already." 

"I never wanted to be pregnant," I answer and finally begin to cry. 

"You understand I must ask. There's no need to cry about it." Mrs. Ellenburg sets her purse on her lap and opens it. She removes a tissue and brings it to me, then returns to the armchair. "You are not solely to blame," she informs me in her matter-of-fact way. "Apparently, my son cannot properly use a condom. I don't know what he was thinking. He barely even knew you. Well, obviously!" Mrs. Ellenburg laughs, but it's not one of amusement, more of disbelief. "You two had no business having sex. You only dated for two months! Rush, rush, rush. That's all Wesley ever does. This is just as much his fault as yours." 

What am I supposed to say? It's like she's sucking all the air from the room, leaving me lightheaded and completely stupid. I only nod. 

Mrs. Ellenburg folds her hands in her lap. She watches me with those dark eyes, probing, penetrating. "What do you intend to do about the baby?" she asks. 

I shrug. "My mother…my mother says I have to have an abortion. She made me an appointment." 

"Do you want to have an abortion?" 

I shrug again. 

"Well, obviously, you don't know what you want. When will your mother be home? I wish to speak to her." 

"She went to Hawaii." 

"She went to _Hawaii_?" Mrs. Ellenburg repeats, voice rising. "What is she doing in Hawaii?" 

"Taking a vacation," I answer. "I'm not supposed to be pregnant when she returns." 

Mrs. Ellenburg appears absolutely appalled. "Well, your mother's completely worthless then," she tells me, "and we won't even consider her opinion. Let's discuss your options. You can have this baby and keep it or give it up for adoption. Or you can have an abortion. Which do you want to do, Shannon?" 

"I don't know. I wanted to discuss it with Wes." 

"Shannon, I am not certain we should tell Wesley that you are actually pregnant. He's devastated enough as is. He feels that he has spoiled you. He's worried that he has ruined you for life. He's taking this whole thing very hard. The pregnancy would only make it worse. If you opt to have an abortion, I don't see why Wesley needs to know. If you decide to keep the baby that's something else. Wesley would have to be told. Are you considering that as an option?" 

I bite my lip. I can't admit all I've fantasized. That Wes would love me because of the baby, that he would come back. He would marry me. We would have a family. Wes would take care of me and never leave. I would be loved and needed. But I can't admit all that to Mrs. Ellenburg. She would laugh. She would laugh that strange and airy laugh. 

"I don't think I'm ready to raise a baby," I tell her. 

"I'm so relieved," Mrs. Ellenburg says, breezily. "I was worried for a minute. I don't know how we'd explain it. You'd ruin your life and Wesley's life. And frankly, I don't think another child needs to be brought into this house. Adoption or abortion then, that's what we're looking at." Mrs. Ellenburg taps her finger against her chin. It's the same habit Wes has. I watch her tap. Tap, tap, tap. "Of course," she finally says, "abortion seems like the simplest solution. I imagine that's why your mother is so eager to get it out of the way. No questions, no explanations, problem taken care of. But it's not so simple, is it? Certainly not for you. Not physically or emotionally. Not simple for Wesley either, if you tell him. It is his baby, too. And not simple for me either." Mrs. Ellenburg raises her eyes for a moment. I wonder if she might cry. "You are, after all, pregnant with my grandchild." 

Somehow, that hadn't occurred to me. I've thought of it as my baby and Wes' baby and our baby, but not in any other terms. It is Mrs. Ellenburg's grandchild. And it is my mother's grandchild, too. Why is it effortless then for Mom to command me to dispose of it while Mrs. Ellenburg actually appears sad at the prospect? Why is it that Mrs. Ellenburg, who has only met me once before and who I lied to and deceived and broke her son's heart, why is it that she manages to speak to me without anger or cruelty? 

"Have you thought about adoption?" 

I shake my head. 

"We could easily find adoptive parents. You must be due in the summertime? You could have the baby during the summer and then in the autumn, go away to college. You could start fresh. And you could do it far away from Wesley. We would pay all your medical expenses, of course, and you wouldn't have to tell anyone that Wesley is the father. You could put his name on the birth certificate, but no one around here would need to know. Wesley shouldn't be punished for believing your lies. Perhaps that sounds harsh, but it is the truth. I could begin making inquiries tomorrow. Would you want me to do that?" 

I cross my legs and fold my hands over my knee. I nod. "Yes," I say, softly. "Thank you." I look at the floor. It needs vacuuming. "My appointment at the clinic is on Friday afternoon. For the abortion. I thought about canceling it. I might go. I might not." 

"Would you like me to take you?" 

"Take me where?" 

"To the clinic," Mrs. Ellenburg replies. "If you decide to go, would you like me to take you? Your mother isn't here and I suspect that even if she were she wouldn't take you anyway. Wesley says you have no other family. I will take you, if you want. I prefer that we not tell Wesley. I don't think there's a reason for him to know. It will only make things more difficult for him. But I already know and I will take you to the clinic, if you so desire. It is…my grandchild." Mrs. Ellenburg touches the jade necklace at her throat. "I can't believe a seventeen year old girl is pregnant with my grandchild." 

My face grows hot. Those eyes are still on me. I wonder if she is sincere or if she simply wants to be certain the problem is taken care of. I am suspicious of adults. And I understand she is suspicious of me. 

"I might not go." 

Mrs. Ellenburg watches me a moment, then lifts her purse onto her lap. She pulls out a pair of reading glasses and slides them onto her face. She flips open her checkbook. "I am writing you a check," she explains, as if it isn't obvious. "Wesley would want to pay for the abortion, if that is the choice you make. Do you know the cost?" 

"Two hundred and fifty dollars," I answer, automatically. 

Mrs. Ellenburg tears out the check, stands and moves toward me, holding it out. "My phone number is on there," she says. "You may call me. I already have your number. I took it from Wesley's address book days ago. He doesn't know. I will call you tomorrow with the information on the adoption agencies." Mrs. Ellenburg lifts her purse onto her shoulder. She stares down at me. I suspect there's so much more she'd like to say. I am impressed by her restraint. I expected her to hurt me. 

I stand. "Mrs. Ellenburg?" I begin, still soft, still nearly inaudible. 

"Yes?" 

"I _am_ sorry for what I did to Wes. I hope you know that. I hope he knows that, too. And I really did love him. I still do. I miss him. He doesn't deserve what I've done to him. I only…I only wanted him to love me. I didn't think of the consequences." 

"No, you didn't," Mrs. Ellenburg agrees without hesitation. 

"Does he miss me at all?" I ask. I can't help myself. 

Mrs. Ellenburg stares at me. "Oh, my God," she says in her breezy voice. "You really are only seventeen." 

I stare back at her, confused. What's that supposed to mean? 

"I think I should leave now," Mrs. Ellenburg tells me. "I'll be in touch." She looks at me a moment, then turns and walks away. She pauses in the doorway. She considers something, then continues on. 

I wonder what more she had to say. 

Maybe I don't want to know. 

I catch her in the foyer. "Mrs. Ellenburg?" I say again. 

She turns around. 

"What do _you_ want me to do?" I ask her. 

She opens her mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. She remains tight-lipped for several seconds. Finally, she says, "It doesn't matter what I want, Shannon. Ultimately, the responsibility is yours. All the power lies in your hands." 

"You want me to have the abortion." 

"It isn't that simple," Mrs. Ellenburg replies. "Please weigh your options carefully. And this time, please consider my son and how what you do and what you tell people will affect him." 

I bite my lip and nod. 

The front door opens and Dad saunters in wearing his golf clothes, carrying his clubs over his shoulder. It snowed yesterday. How can he play golf? 

"Hey!" Dad greets us. He looks at Mrs. Ellenburg. He smiles and points a finger at her. "Are you the new cleaning lady?" he asks. 

"Do I look like a cleaning lady?" Mrs. Ellenburg scoffs. 

Dad is mystified. 

"Dad, this is Wes' mother, Mrs. Ellenburg," I tell him. I don't want to say anything more. I don't know if Dad knows I'm pregnant. He'd probably congratulate me for offering proof that I'm not frigid. 

Dad still looks confused. "Oh, yes…" he says after a moment. His voice suddenly becomes jovial as he remembers. "The guy you had in your bedroom!" 

I turn bright red. 

"I wouldn't sound so cheerful about it," Mrs. Ellenburg informs him, icily. "You should be a little more concerned with who your teenage daughter takes up to her bedroom. I hope you enjoyed your golf game." She turns and strides out the front door. I watch her go down the steps, brisk and confident. She slips on a pair of sunglasses, even though there is no sunshine. At her car, she opens the door and pauses, staring at me. I'm grateful that I cannot see her eyes behind the tinted frames. She ducks inside the car without another word. 


	58. Chapter 58

"Did she hit you?" Greer asks me. 

"No, she didn't hit me," I reply, edgily. 

It's Thursday morning and we're sitting in my car in the SDS parking lot – Greer, Kristy, Sally, and I. It's the most private place I could think of. I've told them about Mrs. Ellenburg's visit. Greer already knew. At least she knew that Mrs. Ellenburg had come to my house. Greer called last night to warn me – too late – that Mrs. Ellenburg had called Mrs. Carson asking questions about me and my family under the guise of needing to mail Mom something about the Greenvale Historical Society. I wasn't in the mood at the time to rehash my conversation with Mrs. Ellenburg, which I know disappointed Greer. And I have a sneaking suspicion that Greer may be slightly disappointed that Mrs. Ellenburg did not attempt to in some way physically assault me. 

"She really didn't hit you?" Greer asks again. 

"No." 

Sally leans forward from the backseat where she and Kristy are seated. "I honestly thought she would kick your ass," Sally informs me. "I stand corrected." 

"I heard she hit his last two girlfriends," Greer says. She's in the passenger seat, awkwardly sitting sideways like me. "I didn't tell you before because I thought it might scare you." 

"I can't see Mrs. Ellenburg hitting anyone," I reply. "She didn't even yell at me. I thought she would. I almost threw up when I saw her sitting in my living room. Obviously, she's not happy with me, but she wasn't nasty about it. Why didn't she yell at me?" 

Greer shrugs. 

"Maybe she's worried you'll use the baby against her son," Kristy suggests. "Like try to use it to trap him or else ruin him. I mean, it was pretty bad when he was having sex with a high school student, but now he's _impregnated_ a high school student. It's like she told you, you have all the power. You could destroy her son." 

"I don't want to ruin Wes," I say, quietly, flushing slightly. I can't admit that I've considered using the baby to get Wes back. Trap him, I guess. 

"She probably feels sorry for you," Sally says, bluntly. "Because your parents are idiots and you…well, you have serious issues. I think that's obvious." 

I flush redder. 

Greer scowls at Sally. "I don't think you're helping," she says. 

"My point is valid," Sally replies. 

"It's okay," I say, softly. I lean back against the door, attempting to readjust my legs, so my knees draw to my chest. It's difficult and uncomfortable. "My appointment's tomorrow," I tell them. 

No one says anything for a moment. 

"Are you going?" Kristy finally asks. 

"I don't know," I answer. I bite my lip and tug on the hem of my skirt, trying to pull it over my knees. It's freezing inside the car. "Mrs. Ellenburg said she'd make inquiries at some adoption agencies, but…I don't know if I can do that. Carry the baby to term and then give it up. And everyone would know. No one would ever forget. It's so selfish, I know…" I let my voice drift off and bite my lip again. "I think I may have the abortion." 

Everyone's silent again. 

"I think you're making the right choice," Greer says. 

"Don't push her," Kristy scolds. 

"Well, don't push her the other way," Greer snaps. 

"I'm not!" Kristy protests. She leans forward to look at me. "I want you to be sure, that's all. You shouldn't let your mom or anyone else pressure you into doing this. You need to be sure." 

"I agree with Kat," Sally says. "You aren't certain. You shouldn't rush into something you may regret." 

"I'd just like to get it over with," I tell them. 

"Our Christmas party is tomorrow night," Greer informs me. She repositions in her seat, bending one knee and resting her arm on it. "I'm supposed to help Mom after school, but I can probably beg off for a couple hours. I can drive you to the clinic." 

I shake my head. "Your mom will be mad. And I think it'll take more than a couple hours." 

Sally peeks around my seat. "My parents and I are supposed to leave for New York tomorrow for Christmas. We aren't leaving until late afternoon though. I'll take you to the clinic. Of course, I can't drive. Maybe our chauffer can drop us off." 

I shake my head again. Taking a chauffeured car to an abortion clinic? It's so absurd that if I weren't near tears I might laugh. 

"I have nothing to do tomorrow," Kristy says. "I'll drive you to the clinic, Shannon. And I promise I won't lecture you or make rude comments. I mean, I'll try really hard not to. I'll stay with you the whole time." 

I bite my lip. I know Kristy means well. I know she is my friend. And I know how difficult it must be for her to offer when she disapproves so strongly of what I intend to do. But I don't think I can go to the clinic with Kristy. 

I stare down at my knees. "Mrs. Ellenburg said she'd take me," I tell them, quietly. 

"But you don't even know her!" Kristy exclaims, shocked. "Why would you want to go with someone you don't even know?" 

I shrug. But I know the reason. I never fathomed myself in this position. I never imagined that I would be pregnant in high school, alone, and contemplating an abortion. I can't get much lower than this. I've hit bottom. Greer, Kristy, and Sally know the terrible things I've done. But I don't want them with me during my abortion. Somehow, that would make everything so much worse. They would see me hit bottom. See me hit it hard. Perhaps, I am selfish for not wanting them to see that. Maybe it shouldn't make a difference. They'll know anyway. 

"Mrs. Ellenburg wants to take me," I say, still staring at my knees. Her opinion of me cannot possibly lower any further. And honestly, what she thinks of me does not much matter. 

"If it's an adult you want," Kristy says, "my mom – " but she stops speaking when I shake my head vigorously. 

"If this is what you want, Starshine," Sally tells me. 

I nod, slowly, unsurely. 

"I can't believe Mrs. Ellenburg wants to take you," Greer says, incredulously. "She's really conservative. I mean, she's from _Greenvale_. I'm less surprised that Kristy's willing to take you!" 

Kristy shoots Greer a dirty look. I shrug. I don't much care why Mrs. Ellenburg wants to take me. 

Greer checks her watch. "The bell is about to ring," she announces. 

I nod and move my legs around, so I can leave the car. Slowly, we all open our doors and climb out. Somehow, I make it through the day without crying or throwing up. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I'm lying on my bed later in the afternoon. I'm not doing anything. I'm simply lying on my back, gazing at the smooth white ceiling. I'm not really even thinking about anything. Not like I should be. 

There's a soft knock on the door and Tiffany pokes her head in. "Do you feel all right?" she asks and slips into the room. 

I roll my head to the side to look at her. "I'm fine," I lie. I don't sound convincing. 

"Are you still going tomorrow?" 

"I guess." 

Tiffany sits down on the end of the bed. "I can go with you," she offers. 

"No," I whisper. That would be even worse than Kristy. I wish Tiffany didn't even know. What she must think of me. What she must really think of me and is too kind to say. 

"Is Greer taking you?" 

I look back up at the ceiling and fold my hands on my stomach. I move them quickly away though. I don't like touching my stomach now. I don't like remembering what is there. "No," I answer, faintly. "Wes' mother said she'd take me." 

"She wants to take you?" Tiffany asks, voice rising with surprise. She knows about Mrs. Ellenburg's visit. I told her about it last night. I just didn't tell her everything. "Why does she want to take you?" Tiffany asks a bit suspiciously. "Does she, like, want to make sure you actually get it done?" 

I shrug my shoulders forward and hope Tiffany can see the gesture. 

"Oh…well…Maria said she was nice…" 

I roll my eyes. Maria's probably plotting ways to move in with Mrs. Ellenburg. 

Tiffany shifts on the bed. "Maria decided she wants a Christmas tree," she says. "Tyler's borrowing his dad's truck and we're going out to the Christmas tree farm in Mercer. He'll be here in about fifteen minutes. Why don't you come with us? It would be…" Tiffany doesn't finish. I'm glad she doesn't say "fun". 

"I'll stay here. Thanks for asking though," I reply and finally sit up. "I think the ornaments are in the attic. I'll get them down while you're gone." 

"All right," Tiffany says and smiles slightly. "We'll bring back dinner. Do you have a preference?" 

I shake my head. I'm still not eating much. I'm never very hungry. 

As soon as Tiffany leaves, the telephone rings. I slide off the bed and walk sluggishly across the room to my desk. My hand hovers hesitantly over the phone. It rings sharply, cutting through the air. I finally pick it up. 

"Hello?" 

"It's Greer." 

Relief washes over me. I'm afraid that Mrs. Ellenburg may change her mind and screech at me after all. 

"How are you?" Greer asks. 

I shrug, then realize Greer can't see me. "I'm fine," I lie and sound no more convincing than when I told Tiffany the same lie. I pick up the phone and cross to the bed, where I lie down. 

"We're getting ready to leave for the Christmas pageant," Greer tells me. "Do you want to come? Maybe it'll do you some good to get out of the house and, I don't know, get your mind off everything. The pageant's really good. Karl's and my skit is the best part, of course. I don't think it's self-centered to admit that. And Sally's playing the piano. Dr. Patek made her choose an actual Christmas song, but I'm certain Sally has chosen the most depressing Christmas song in the history of the world." Greer laughs a bit awkwardly. "So, do you want to come?" 

"Not really. I'm sorry, Greer." 

"Oh…well, that's okay. I understand." The disappointment in Greer's voice is unmistakable. "Dad's videotaping it though, so you can see it later. If you want, that is. Are you coming to school tomorrow?" 

"Maybe. My appointment's not until the afternoon." I wonder if I can make it through an entire day at school, an entire day of faking normal, knowing what I will do come two o' clock. 

"If you don't come, I guess I won't see you until after the holidays then. We're leaving for New York on Saturday morning. But I'll call you tomorrow evening after…afterward." 

"Okay," I say and close my eyes. A couple tears leak out of the corners. I don't bother wiping them away. Sally leaves for New York tomorrow. She and Greer will both be there visiting their families, having Merry Christmases. I wonder if they'll see each other; if they'll visit the tree in Rockefeller Center, check out the window displays on Fifth Avenue, ice skate in Central Park. They'll both be on the Upper East Side. And I'll be here. I shouldn't feel jealous. 

"Well…" Greer says after a moment of silence. "I should finish getting ready. We're going to Pietro's after the pageant, but I should be home around ten. You can call me if you want to talk again." 

"Thank you, Greer," I reply and hope she knows I mean for everything. 

We hang up and I go into the bathroom. I wash my face, which makes me feel a little fresher, a little better. Then I walk down to the other end of the hall and open the door across from Mom and Dad's room. I pull down the ladder to the attic and climb up slowly, cautiously. When I pull myself into a sitting position on the floor, I flick on the light. It's very dim in the attic, but I manage to find the Christmas ornaments without any trouble. I drop the boxes down into the closet and hope most of the ornaments don't break. I don't bother with the other boxes of Christmas decorations. We never bother with those anymore. 

I leave the boxes of ornaments stacked outside Mom and Dad's room. Tiffany and Maria can carry them down to the living room. I don't feel like do anything more for Christmas. Retrieving the ornaments was enough. It hardly feels like Christmas. It feels wrong to celebrate. All around me, people are happy and cheerful. At school, kids wear festive touches with their uniforms - red and green-striped scarves, tiny wreaths of holly pinned to their sweaters, reindeer earrings hanging from their ears. Christmas will never be the same for me. I don't think it will ever again feel magical. 

In the bathroom, I run a bath. I'm dusty from the attic and Sally told me that she once heard you can't take a bath for a week after an abortion. I strip and pour rose-scented bubble bath under the faucet. I climb into the hot water and sit very still, knees drawn to my chest. I bury my face in my knees and cry. I sit until the tub fills completely and the water begins to cool to lukewarm. 

Back in my bedroom, I change into a pair of pajamas even though it's only six o' clock. I've just closed the last button when the telephone rings. I lower gingerly onto the bed beside where I left the phone and watch it a moment. I take a deep breath and answer. 

"Hello?" I squeak. 

"Hello, Shannon," comes a cool voice. "This is Molly Ellenburg." 

"Hello, Mrs. Ellenburg," I say, timidly. 

"How are you feeling?" 

"Fine." 

"I have the information that I promised. I contacted a private adoption agency in Stamford and several in New York City. The process is very similar with each agency. Would you like to hear about it?" 

Mrs. Ellenburg does not waste words. 

"Yes, please." 

"All right," Mrs. Ellenburg says and I hear papers shuffling. "Where did I put my glasses…ah, here they are…All right, Shannon. Now first, you will need to…" 

I listen to Mrs. Ellenburg and my head begins to swim. She speaks without taken any breaths. I didn't imagine anyone could do such thorough research in less than a day. She tells me about meeting with prospective parents, signing waivers, closed adoptions, open adoptions, special homes for me to stay during the pregnancy. I don't think there's anything she's not thought of. It's overwhelming. I close my eyes and hold my head, which is splitting just listening to her. There's too much, there's too many decisions. I start to cry. 

Mrs. Ellenburg stops speaking mid-sentence. She listens for a moment. "Shannon…are you all right?" she asks. 

I take a gulping breath. "I'm keeping my appointment," I tell her in a gasp of breath. "I want to have an abortion." 

There's a long silence. 

"I'm sorry that you wasted your time," I apologize, wiping my eyes. 

"It's quite all right," Mrs. Ellenburg replies. "Are you certain this is what you want?" 

I hesitate. "I think so," I answer. 

"You should be more certain than that." 

"I'm certain," I reply, even though I am not. "Will you still take me?" 

"Yes. I will take you, if you want me to. When is your appointment?" 

"It's at two o' clock." 

"I will pick you up at your house at one-thirty then." 

"Thank you," I say, softly. I close my eyes tight. "Mrs. Ellenburg? Do you know how they do it? Do they cut me open?" 

There's a pause on her end. "Didn't your mother explain it to you?" she asks. 

I feel my face grow hot. I must sound like such a stupid girl. "No. She only made the appointment and told me when to go." 

There's another pause. I wonder what Mrs. Ellenburg's thinking. 

"The doctor will not cut you open," she finally replies in her measured voice. "I don't know much about it. I believe the doctor uses some sort of vacuum. It will be inserted through your cervix. I believe you will be given anesthesia. You won't be awake. I could call in the morning and find out more for you." 

I still haven't learned what a cervix is. "No, that's okay. I guess they'll tell me at the clinic. Do you know – " 

Another extension picks up. I hear it and stop speaking. Mrs. Ellenburg hears it, too. Neither of us speaks for a moment. 

"Dennis?" Mrs. Ellenburg finally says. She waits a second. "Wesley, is that you?" 

"Who are you talking to?" asks Wes' voice. 

My stomach tightens. I almost throw up. It's startling to hear his voice again. 

"What are you doing attempting to eavesdrop on my private conversation?" Mrs. Ellenburg demands, her voice losing its measured tone. "Get off the phone, Wesley. You're not five years old." 

"Why are you in your bedroom with the door locked?" Wes asks. 

"Will you please hang up the phone?" Mrs. Ellenburg replies. 

Wes doesn't hang up and I barely breathe on the other end. If I breathe, it may lead to tears. 

"A New York adoption agency called while you were at the salon," Wes tells his mother, flatly. 

Mrs. Ellenburg curses. It's a bit shocking. 

"Shannon?" Wes asks. "Is that you?" 

I don't answer. 

"Shannon?" Wes repeats. 

"Yes?" I finally reply. 

There's a drawn out silence. 

"Oh, my God!" Wes cries. "You're actually pregnant! Oh, my God! Why didn't you tell me?" 

"I told you!" I shout, angrily. "You hung up on me!" 

"I'm not talking to you! I'm talking to my mother! Oh, my God, Mother!" 

"Calm down, Wesley," Mrs. Ellenburg says, sharply. 

"You're pregnant?" 

"I'm sorry!" I exclaim and start to cry. 

"When were you going to tell me?" Wesley demands and I have no idea if he's speaking to me or his mother or if it even matters. "She's actually pregnant?" 

"Calm down, Wesley," Mrs. Ellenburg says, voice rising. "You're behaving like a child! I don't need you shrieking in my ear and neither does Shannon. Is it any wonder I didn't tell you? Get a grip, Wesley, or get off the phone." 

I cover my eyes with my hand and sob quietly. On the other end, I hear what sounds like feet running on a hardwood floor, then a fist pounding on a door. The door opens and Wes shouts, "She's pregnant?" again and from the vague hollow echo coming through the phone, I know he and his mother are now in the same room. They cover the mouthpieces and I only hear faint sounds of them arguing. Wes might be crying. 

Finally, Mrs. Ellenburg comes back on the line. "Shannon? I'll have to call you back," she says and hangs up. 

I stare at the receiver, still crying. I hardly know what to think or how to feel. I wanted Wes to know. I wanted him to help me make a decision. But now I wish he had never found out. He's furious. He probably hates me more than he did before. I hold myself for a few minutes, sniffling on the bed, and then finally get up. I splash cool water on my face in the bathroom. It doesn't help. 

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rings again. I answer without thinking. 

"Hello?" I sound very tired. 

"This is Molly Ellenburg," Wes' mother tells me. Her voice sounds normal again. Calm and almost soothing. "I apologize for that." 

"It's okay," I say. My voice sounds like it's sagging. 

"Wesley would like to see you before the abortion," Mrs. Ellenburg informs me. It's very matter-of-fact. "He's much too upset to speak to you now. I promise he will not behave like that again. Would you like to see him?" 

"Yes." 

"Are you going to school tomorrow? Stoneybrook Middle School lets out for Christmas break at noon. Wesley would like to come over around twelve-thirty." 

"I'll be here." 

After we hang up, I sit and stare at the wall, at nothing, for a very long time. 


	59. Chapter 59

At noon I am a wreck. 

I pace around the kitchen, feeling nauseous and lightheaded, wringing my hands. I don't know why I'm not crying since that's all I ever do anymore. I pour a glass of apple juice with shaking hands and can barely hold it steady enough to sip. I force down half a cheese sandwich. I chew each bite extra long. It's nearly impossible to swallow. A woman from the clinic called this morning to remind me about my appointment. As if I could forget. She told me to eat light. I didn't tell her that I've not been eating at all. 

At twelve-twenty, I go into the dining room and pull a chair over to the window. I have the best view of the street and driveway from here. I sit in the chair, absently wringing my hands, watching the street with nervous knots twisting in my stomach. I know I look awful. I always look awful these days. I tried to cover it up. I tried to pretend. I washed and styled my hair. I put on make-up. I dressed carefully. What does one wear to her abortion? I didn't know and if there was anyone to ask, I'd be too embarrassed to ask anyway. So, I put on my favorite gray skirt and a pair of gray heels and a lavender angora sweater. I probably look silly. I feel silly. 

It's a minute after twelve-thirty when the navy blue Saab sweeps into the drive. My breath catches in my throat. I didn't realize Mrs. Ellenburg was coming, too. Is she going to sit with Wes and I and mediate our conversation? Oh, dear Lord. Did he tell her what happened when I went to his classroom? Are they afraid I may do that again? I stand on wobbly legs and press my face to the windowpane for a clearer look. 

Mrs. Ellenburg is alone. My heart sinks and I bite my lip, fighting back tears. Wes changed his mind. He doesn't want to see me after all. Mrs. Ellenburg climbs out of her car. She shuts the door and glances around, looking as regal as usual. Today, she's dressed in a black pantsuit with a white blouse and a red belt. She looks the part I merely pretend to play and fail – collected, self-assured, _together_. I am not together. I may never be together again. Mrs. Ellenburg places her hands on her hips, still standing beside her car. She stares off down the street in the direction from which she arrived. 

Wes' car turns the corner. I see the red in the distance and my heart leaps. It leaps and plummets all in the same moment. I wish I hadn't eaten that half of a sandwich. I may throw it up now. I watch Wes' Volvo pull into the drive next to his mother's Saab. Wes sits a moment, hands on the steering wheel until Mrs. Ellenburg raps on the passenger side window. Hands still on her hips, she jerks her head back in the direction of my house and finally Wes gets out of the car. 

He looks the same. I don't know why I expected him to look any different. He's still handsome. He's still wearing the dark blue crewneck sweater that he wore far too often while we dated. Wes and his mother stroll casually up the walk, hands in their pockets, talking. As Wes comes nearer, I realize he doesn't look exactly the same as I remember. His face is very pale and there are dark circles under his eyes. I can't read his expression. Mrs. Ellenburg's doing most of the talking. I wonder what she's saying. It must be about me. 

When they reach the porch, I duck away from the window and sort of stumble into the foyer. My legs won't work properly. There's a sharp rapping on the front door. Clear and authoritative. I know it's Mrs. Ellenburg. I take a deep breath and slowly open the door. 

"Hello, Shannon," Mrs. Ellenburg greets me and steps into the foyer, slipping past me. 

Wes hesitates and shifts uncomfortably on the doorstep. He doesn't look at me. 

"Do you intend to do this on the front porch?" Mrs. Ellenburg inquires. 

Wes steps into the foyer, still not looking at me. He steps as far away from me as possible. I shut the door behind him. 

"I'll just go somewhere else," Mrs. Ellenburg announces and strides purposely out of the foyer toward the living room, as if she knows exactly where she's going, as if she's been here a million times before. 

I'm glad she's leaving us alone. 

And then I'm sorry she did not stay. 

I clasp my hands in front of me, eyes downcast. I bite my lip, waiting for Wes to speak. He doesn't. 

"We can go into the formal living room," I suggest, meekly. 

Wes nods. He doesn't look at me though. He looks beyond me, over my shoulder. I lead him through the foyer into the formal living room. I sit down at one end of the couch, sitting straight and tall, staring down at my hands on my knees. I expect Wes to stand in the doorway or take a seat on the opposite side of the room, but instead, he sits down in the middle of the couch, angling his body toward me. He watches me a moment. I feel his eyes on me. 

"I'm sorry about the way I acted last night," Wes says, speaking for the first time. "I was just…surprised doesn't seem right. Shocked. I was extremely shocked. I'm sorry that I shouted at you and made you cry. My mother was right. I behaved like a child." 

"It's okay," I whisper. "I understand." 

"And I'm sorry that I hung up on you when you called to tell me that…that…you're…pregnant. I should have called you back. I was afraid it was true, that you were actually telling the truth. I should have found out for sure. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you've been dealing with this on your own." 

"My friends have helped me," I reply. I finally look up at him. He catches my eye and glances away. I wonder if his mother put him up to this or if he is completely sincere. 

"I'm sorry that I did this to you," Wes says, quietly. 

I look over at him, startled. "What?" I ask. 

"I'm so sorry, Shannon, that I did this to you. It's my fault. I obviously wasn't careful enough." 

"I wanted to have sex, too. It's not all your fault, Wes. You didn't do this on purpose. It was an accident," I tell him. "And I really am pregnant. That isn't a lie." I reach down under the coffee table, where I set my messenger bag earlier. I flip open the flap and remove a folded piece of white paper from the smallest pocket. "Dr. Wallingford's office faxed this over this morning," I say, extending the paper to him with shaking hands. "It's the results of my pregnancy test. I need it for the clinic." 

Wes takes the paper, hesitantly. He glances down at it, scanning it with his eyes. His face, which had remained expressionless, registers subtle panic. He knows for sure now. This time I'm not lying. "You're really pregnant," he says, flatly, and leans his head back, covering his eyes with his hand. His shoulders begin to shake. He's crying. 

"I'm sorry," I say, not knowing what else I can offer as comfort. I keep my hands in my lap. I doubt he wants me touching him. 

Wes cries quietly for a little while. We don't speak. I wait for him to finish and when he does, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "My mother promised she didn't yell at you," Wes says when he's through crying. "I hope that's true." 

"No, she didn't yell. She's been perfectly…well-mannered," I reply and blush slightly because that's a rather stupid word choice. "She's been more pleasant than I deserve. More so than I expected. She's very…efficient. She hasn't yelled at all." 

"I guess she saved her wrath for me then," Wes says. "Last night, she beat me on the head with a rolled up copy of _Forbes_. Repeatedly. My dad had to take it away from her." Wes wipes his right eye again. "She blames me for this. She said she's disappointed to learn that I am apparently not intelligent enough to figure out I'm dating a seventeen year old high school girl. She doesn't understand how you fooled me for so long." Wes pauses and looks at me a long time. "I guess I believed what I wanted to believe," he finally says. 

I take paper from where it lies on his knee and refold it slowly, biting my lip. I slip the pregnancy results back into my messenger bag. "You're still lucky," I tell Wes, studying my hands. "My mother slapped me when I told her. She slapped me and accused me of trying to ruin her reputation. All she cares about is my getting an abortion as quickly as possible. I could probably do it in the bathroom with a coat hanger and she wouldn't care." I start to cry. Not much. Just a few tears. "Your mother's been much nicer to me. I know she must be furious with me, but at least she manages to act civilized." 

"That's because…" Wes begins and hesitates. "That's because she knows how much I cared about you. I really did love you, Shannon. Plus, your parents…" Wes doesn't finish. He doesn't need to. "My parents are really upset," Wes says. "My dad hasn't said much, but he never does. My mother has enough to say for both of them. She really wants grandchildren and it upsets her knowing…that's not important." Wes runs his fingers through his hair, nervously. He still won't meet my gaze for any length of time. "I guess you've decided to have an abortion. I'll support whatever you want to do." 

I continue staring at my hands, head lowered so my hair obscures the side view of my face, so Wes cannot watch the tears tumble from my eyes. It's his baby, too. Doesn't he care what I do? I sniffle and the tears come faster. 

Wes touches my shoulder, lightly. "Shannon?" he asks, softly. 

I turn my head toward him, pushing my hair back, so I may see his face. "Doesn't it matter to you what I do?" I ask through my tears. "This is your baby, you know. It really is. I never cheated on you. It's your baby, Wes." 

"I know. I know," Wes says. His voice is very faint. It catches. "I know it's my baby." He reaches his hand toward me, moving it toward my stomach, then draws it quickly back. 

"It just feels like a stomach," I choke out. "I'm only like four weeks along." 

Wes reaches out again and places his hand on my stomach, gently. He holds it there and closes his eyes, very tight. I can't read his expression. I can't guess at what he's thinking. 

"Whatever decision you make is fine with me," Wes says, eyes still closed, hand still lingering on my stomach. "It's your choice, Shannon. It's your body. You're the one who is pregnant. You're the one who has to go through the abortion, or remain pregnant and carry the baby and give birth. I'll support whatever decision you make." Wes finally draws his hand back. 

"I'm planning to have the abortion," I tell him. I watch him a moment, biting hard on my lip. I do that so much now, like crying, and wonder if I'll ever be rid of the habit. I fidget with the hem of my skirt, and then still my hands by placing them in my lap. I watch Wes a moment more. "We could get married," I say without much thought. It slips out, springs forth into the open, and hovers in the air. 

Wes stares at me. "What?" he replies and begins to pale further. 

"You could marry me," I tell him and swallow the lump forming in my throat. "I don't have to have the abortion. I could have the baby and we could get married. My parents won't care and I'll be eighteen in March. I know I wasn't a very good girlfriend and that I lied to you," I say and tears begin to leak from my eyes, dripping down my cheeks. "But I think I could be a good wife. I know I would be a good mother. I won't lie anymore. You know the truth now and there's no reason for me to lie. You were such a wonderful boyfriend, Wes, and I know you would be a great husband and father. You're attentive and loving and generous. I would try so hard to please you, Wes. I wouldn't mess up again. I'd learn to cook and clean and I'd learn to be much better in bed. I know you always claimed the sex was fantastic, but I know I wasn't very good at it. But if you gave me another chance, I would do everything so much better. I would take care of you and our baby. We would be a family. I would like to have my own family. A real family." I pause for breath and take it in a large gasp, gulping through my tears. I have more to say, but the words don't come. They do not pass my lips. 

Wes stares at me, eyes wide and panicked. He doesn't speak. He simply stares. I sob harder. What's wrong with me? Wes opens his mouth, appearing dumbstruck, and closes it again. I take my chance. I move in quickly, leaning forward so fast he doesn't realize. I press my lips to his. Surprisingly, his lips respond, pressing back against mine. But only for a moment. He pulls back, eyes still wide, and pushes me away, hands wrapped gently around my upper arms. He holds me like that at arms length, staring at me. 

And I cry. 

"No, Shannon. No," he says, his voice somehow soft, yet firm. "We can never be together again. You need to realize that. I can't marry you. I can't. And appearances and my career aside, that's not really what's important. You're seventeen years old. You haven't even finished high school yet. You aren't ready to get married and settle down. I know you are unhappy and your parents are jerks, but marrying me and having a baby isn't going to solve anything. It will only create new problems. I can't marry you." Wes closes his eyes a moment and when he opens them there are tears pooling in the corners. "We can't get married. I don't even know you. Not really. I know you're probably not so different than the girl I dated…and fell in love with…but…it's not the same. If you were the girl you had claimed to be…if you were really a twenty year old college student…we could consider marriage. But you're not. You're seventeen. You're seventeen and I feel this enormous guilt weighing on me whenever I remember that. And now I know that I impregnated you. I had sex with a teenager and got her pregnant. I feel disgusting, Shannon." 

Wes releases my arms and covers his eyes. I watch him cry, hidden behind his hand. I watch him and I feel guilt lowering onto me, weighing on me like it weighs on Wes. I did this to him. I did this to myself. I'm so selfish. I am horrible. Wes didn't deserve this. He really did love me. That's all he ever did was love me. And I've destroyed him in some way. I've put this terrible burden on him. He loved me. I loved him, too, but not in the same way. I needed him, needed him to love me, needed the way he made me feel. Wes' love was much more selfless than mine. 

"I'm so sorry, Wes," I whisper and hesitantly set my hand on his knee. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

Wes' tears eventually stop. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. I move my hand away from his knee. 

"I'll have the abortion," I tell him. 

"It's your choice, Shannon, but I can't marry you." 

"I know." 

Neither of us says anything for a while. 

"Do you want me to come?" Wes asks finally. "To the clinic? I'll come if you want me to. And my mother doesn't have to come with us. I know she's really pushy, but if you don't want her there she won't go." 

I fold my arms across my chest and look down at a tiny yellow mark on the beige couch cushion. I stare at the mark like it's truly fascinating. "I think…I think…I'd prefer you not go, Wes. Thank you for offering though. You are such a good man," I tell him. It's the least I can do. I've done so much to him already. "You've done nothing wrong, Wes. I'm really sorry." 

Wes sits still a moment. He doesn't say he forgives me. I don't expect him to. Maybe someday he will. "I'll get my mother," he says, standing. "It's almost time for you to go." He walks out into the foyer and calls, "Mom?" 

I remain seated on the couch, studying the yellow mark. I hear Mrs. Ellenburg's heels clicking on the foyer tile. I glance up and watch her and Wes. They face each other in the foyer, speaking in hushed voices. Mrs. Ellenburg's hands rest on her hips again. This time Wes does most of the talking. He gestures toward me without looking at me. He starts to cry. In her heels, Mrs. Ellenburg and Wes are eye-to-eye. She takes his face in her hands and wipes his tears away. Then she hugs him. 

My mother is in Hawaii. 

She doesn't care about me. 

Mrs. Ellenburg waits in the foyer while Wes walks back into the formal living room. He stands in the center of the room and waits for me to stand. I rise and move closer to him. I'm not sure what we're supposed to say. 

"You're certain you want to do this?" Wes asks me. 

I nod. 

"Okay," Wes says. 

We face each other awkwardly for a moment. I cross my arms over my chest and cast my eyes to the floor. Finally, Wes reaches out and lays his hand on my shoulder. It rests there very lightly, almost as if it's not there at all. 

"I'm sorry for this," Wes tells me. 

"I'm sorry, too." 

Wes squeezes my shoulder, gently, then drops his hand. It falls to his side. "Well…I hope…I hope the procedure…goes well…I hope it's not that bad," he says. "I don't know what to…" 

"I understand." 

"Goodbye, Shannon." 

"Goodbye, Wes." 

I keep my eyes trained on the floor, so I don't have to watch him walk away. I hear him retreat and his footfalls in the foyer. I hear Mrs. Ellenburg say, "I'll call you afterward," and then the front door opens and closes. 


	60. Chapter 60

Mrs. Ellenburg comes into the room. She stands a few feet from me. I can see the pointed toes of her black heels. "Wesley is concerned that you are not ready to have an abortion," Mrs. Ellenburg informs me. "You don't have to go in today. We're staying in Greenvale for the holidays instead of going to Miami. I can take you next week just as easily as today. Don't worry about your mother. She's given up her right to have an opinion in the matter." 

I shake my head. "No. I want to get it over with. I want to get it over with today." 

"All right. Would you like to go into the bathroom and freshen up?" 

I nod and leave the room, quickly, still staring down at the carpet. I slip into the downstairs bathroom and nearly cry when I see my reflection. I look atrocious. My eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, my eyeliner smeared. I look almost as bad as I feel inside. I dab around my eyes with a damp washcloth and comb my fingers through my hair. It doesn't matter how I look. I'm getting an abortion, not collecting an award. 

"I'm ready," I announce, more confidently than I feel. 

Mrs. Ellenburg holds the front door open for me and I walk through, slowly, raising the strap of my messenger bag onto my shoulder. She turns the lock before coming through, then pulls the door shut behind her. We walk down the front steps together. Across the street, Mrs. Stevenson's minivan sits in her driveway. Mrs. Stevenson stands beside the open driver's side door, head lowered, digging through her purse. I don't know when I last saw her. Was it the last time I saw Anna? When Mrs. Stevenson stood in her foyer with a bag of take-out Chinese in her arms? That was Thanksgiving. An eternity ago. 

Mrs. Stevenson is talking to someone, but I don't hear her words, just the sound of her voice drifting across the street on a chilled breeze. The minivan's backdoor is slid open and someone's bent inside, their legs sticking out. All I see are a pair of faded jeans and a pair of white sneakers. I recognize the sneakers. White with black and turquoise stripes. 

Anna's home for winter break. 

"The door is unlocked, Shannon," Mrs. Ellenburg informs me. 

I tear my eyes away from the Stevensons. I open the passenger side door and slide into Mrs. Ellenburg's Saab. She climbs into the driver's seat, latches her belt, and starts the car. She removes her sunglasses from her purse and slides them on. The day is overcast. It might snow again. I don't know why she needs sunglasses. It doesn't matter. I gaze out the window at my house as we back down the drive. When I return, I won't be pregnant any longer. I won't be pregnant, but everything else will be the same. 

I keep my eyes straight ahead as we pass the Stevenson house. Anna and her mother are still in their driveway. I don't know if they see me. If they do, I know they're wondering where I'm going. They're wondering who I'm with. I keep my eyes straight ahead. I don't let my gaze wander. 

"Would you like to listen to the radio?" Mrs. Ellenburg asks. 

"I don't care," I reply. 

Mrs. Ellenburg presses a button on the radio, then pushes a cassette into the tape deck. There's a click, then the car fills with the voice of Billy Joel in the middle of a song. I burst into tears. 

"You don't like Billy Joel?" Mrs. Ellenburg asks. 

I shake my head. "It's not that. This was our song. That's what Wes said anyway. He said I was an uptown girl." I wipe my eyes. 

Mrs. Ellenburg turns off the tape. 

"I have something for you," Mrs. Ellenburg says after a few minutes of silence. We're leaving Stoneybrook, heading toward the freeway on-ramp. "Can you reach my purse in the backseat? There's a paper in the side pocket." 

I unlatch my belt and lean back between the seats. I pluck the paper from the side pocket of her purse, then return to my seat. I latch my belt again and unfold the paper. It's a piece of white stationary with a dark teal border and at the top written in dark teal lettering, reads: _From The Desk Of…Molly Stratten Ellenburg_. Mrs. Ellenburg doesn't look like a Molly. 

"I called my gynecologist this morning," Mrs. Ellenburg explains, "and asked him about the procedure. They'll explain it in more detail at the clinic, but there you are, a rough draft, so there won't be any surprises." 

I stare down at the paper. Written in sweeping cursive are the steps to the abortion procedure. Mrs. Ellenburg actually numbered them. I read over the paper, my stomach twisting and knotting. I don't know what I expected. It didn't seem real before and now reading it over…it's more than simply real. It's a cold and frightening reality. 

"I'm going to be sick," I announce. "I'm going to throw up. Can you please pull over?" 

Mrs. Ellenburg eases the car to the side of the freeway. I unlatch my belt and open the car door. I lean out and vomit. I vomit my apple juice and cheese sandwich onto the side of the freeway. I gag. All the water I drank this morning comes up, too. I gag again. My throat feels fiery and raw. Tears streak down my cheeks. My nose runs. Here I am, hitting rock bottom. 

Mrs. Ellenburg places her hand on my back. She rubs it. It's very strange. 

"All right then?" asks Mrs. Ellenburg. 

I nod and close the door. She hands me a packet of tissues. I remove one and wipe my nose, then take another to wipe my mouth. I pull down the visor and flip open the mirror. My face is red and blotchy. Just like my eyes. 

"Are you ready to go on?" Mrs. Ellenburg asks me. 

I nod. 

We pull back onto the freeway and continue toward Stamford. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I wish I could rinse out my mouth. I find a stick of gum in my messenger bag. I lean my head against the windowpane while I chew, squeezing the tissues tight in my fist. 

"Wes is very lucky," I tell Mrs. Ellenburg after several minutes of silence. "He talked about you all the time, you know. When we dated, that is. I used to wonder if that was kind of weird, talking about your mom so much. Now I understand. He always had wonderful things to say about you and his dad." I close my eyes and squeeze the tissues a bit tighter. "My mother slapped me when I told her I was pregnant." 

"Wesley mentioned that," Mrs. Ellenburg says. She flicks on the turn signal. I hear it ding faintly and feel the car ease onto the off-ramp. "Did he tell you I hit him with a magazine?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, he deserved it. He's twenty-six years old and should know better than to have sex with virgins he's known for a month. He obviously didn't consider the possible consequences. He realizes them now," Mrs. Ellenburg says and gently eases to a stop at the light off the freeway. She looks both ways and turns to the right. "Wesley's very worried about you and how this will affect you. Not simply right now but possibly for the rest of your life. The abortion won't fix everything, I hope you realize that." 

I bite my lip and nod. 

"It's good that you realize that. Now, which way is Sleet Street? I don't know where we are." 

I point to the left. "It's that way," I say, softly. 

Mrs. Ellenburg moves into the left turn lane. I start feeling queasy again, my stomach twisting into more knots. I know this shouldn't be easy. A couple minutes later, we turn into the parking lot of the Stamford Health Clinic. It's near downtown Stamford and I realize I've past the clinic a dozen times and never realized. The clinic is in an old two-story house, painted yellow with white trim. It looks very cheery. Outside the gates, several people stand with signs. There are seven or eight of them. My stomach drops. 

"Who are those people?" I ask Mrs. Ellenburg, even though I know. I want confirmation. 

She's searching through her purse. She glances up. "Anti-abortion protesters," she replies, completely nonchalant. "Just ignore them. They won't do anything to you. Now, did you cash the check I gave you?" 

I shake my head and lift my messenger bag onto my lap. I take the check out of my wallet and hand it to her. 

Mrs. Ellenburg tears the check in half and slips it into her own wallet. "Wesley went to the bank before we came to your house. He gave me cash to pay for the procedure," she tells me and replaces her wallet in her purse. "All right, are you ready, Shannon?" 

I bite my lip and nod slightly. My head feels very heavy. My neck doesn't move it correctly. I glance down and see Mrs. Ellenburg's stationary sitting half under my leg. I stare down at it, at the words peeking out. "Mrs. Ellenburg…can I ask you one question?" 

"Yes." 

"What's a cervix?" 

Apparently, nothing I ask surprises Mrs. Ellenburg anymore. She doesn't even hesitate. "It's the opening to your uterus," she replies. 

I nod. "Oh," is all I say. I'm glad she doesn't point out that perhaps I shouldn't have had sex if I don't know such simple things about my reproductive system. I know it's what she's thinking. She's probably wondering how I ever figured out how to have sex in the first place. 

"Do you have any other questions?" she asks me. 

I shake my head. "No. I'm ready." 

We climb out of the car. I take much longer than Mrs. Ellenburg. I mess with the buttons on my coat and adjust my scarf, and then take awhile straightening the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Mrs. Ellenburg waits patiently on the sidewalk, looking quite poised in her tailored pantsuit and sunglasses, as if standing outside abortion clinics is something she does every day of her life. When I join her on the sidewalk and we walk side by side toward the clinic. She rests her hand on my back as we approach the gates. I keep my eyes downcast, ignoring the protesters who attempt to speak to me. 

Inside the clinic, I sign in at the reception desk. Mrs. Ellenburg counts out the money for my abortion. Two hundred and fifty dollars. The receptionist hands me a stack of forms to fill out. They look similar to the ones I filled out at Dr. Wallingford's office. It takes me about fifteen minutes to complete the forms. Without my mother here, I'm not a hundred percent certain of all the answers. I wonder if she's thought about me at all while in Hawaii. I wonder if she remembered what's happening today, what's happening right now. Doubtful. I'm glad she isn't here. A stranger is better than my mother. 

"Shannon," a woman calls my name from underneath an archway. She's mid-forties, about my height with straight shoulder-length brown hair and wide hips. She smiles at me as she comes over, hand extended. "I'm Jennifer Drabek," she introduces herself as I shake her hand. "I'm a counselor and I'd like to speak to you before your procedure. Okay?" 

I nod and stand up. 

Jennifer extends her hand to Mrs. Ellenburg next. "And you are Shannon's mother?" she inquires. 

Mrs. Ellenburg takes her hand. "No. I'm her boyfriend's mother," she replies and sounds completely unruffled. I'm grateful for that. 

Jennifer takes me into her office, which used to be someone's living room. It's odd to think that. That where a family used to live and sleep and eat, now girls are given abortions and written prescriptions for birth control pills and tested for STDs. 

"Please have a seat," Jennifer tells me and slides into the chair behind her desk. She opens a file with my medical forms. She glances at the top paper a moment then closes the file and looks across the desk at me. "Okay," she says and folds her hands on the desk. "Before you decide to have an abortion, I'd just like to go over all your options, and then, if you still believe an abortion is the best decision for you, I'll explain the procedure and you'll meet with the doctor. Okay?" 

I nod, but barely. "Yes," I say, quietly. I clear my throat. "Yes," I repeat a little louder, a little clearer. 

Jennifer hands me a couple papers. She goes over each with me. One paper describes the adoption process and the other discusses teenage pregnancy and raising a baby alone. I ask her a couple questions, but am not too interested. I already know what I'm going to do. When she finishes, she explains the abortion procedure and what happens during and after. I ask some questions, even though I realize some sound stupid, but Jennifer answers each one, unfazed by my naïveté. When we're done with that, she begins asking me questions. She asks about my boyfriend and my family and my friends, normal things like that, except there's nothing normal at the root of her questions. She's fishing around in my life, searching to see if this is truly my decision. 

"Do your parents know about the pregnancy?" Jennifer asks. 

I nod. "My mom knows. I told her," I answer. I glance over to the left side of Jennifer's desk. She has a lot of pictures arranged in painted wooden frames. She has a nice, happy-looking family. Her daughter looks a lot like her. She plays tennis. "My mom knows," I repeat. Mom keeps pictures of us on her desk at work, too. We're lined up in rows in our uniforms, blonde-haired and blue-eyed and smiling. We're on display. It's not because she's proud of us. 

"And she knows about your choice to have an abortion?" 

"She made the appointment," I reply. "I thought I didn't need parental consent?" 

"You don't. I'm just asking." 

"Oh." 

"And your boyfriend? What does he think?" 

"He says he supports whatever I choose to do." 

Jennifer nods. "That's good," she says. 

We talk a little more and then Jennifer announces that we're done unless I have any other questions. I don't. She leads me back into the waiting room, where Mrs. Ellenburg's still sitting, wearing her reading glasses, flipping through a magazine. 

"Jennifer's going to take me back to an exam room," I tell her, stopping beside her chair. 

"All right." 

"I'm going to leave my bag with you," I say and set my messenger bag in the chair beside hers. "It'll take an hour or so." 

"I'll wait right here," Mrs. Ellenburg says. 

I nod and walk away. Jennifer slips an arm around my shoulders and leads me to the back of the house and into an empty exam room. She stays with me until the doctor comes in. The doctor is female and I'm sort of relieved. Dr. Wallingford was pleasant enough, but that exam was still embarrassing. The doctor introduces herself as Dr. Redmond and gives me a quick physical exam. She looks over my chart and the papers from Dr. Wallingford and asks me some questions. Then she describes the procedure – called manual vacuum aspiration – and its risks. 

"The procedure will only take around ten minutes," Dr. Redmond explains. "There may be some discomfort. Most women say it feels like strong menstrual cramps. Of course, you will be given a painkiller. You have a couple options there. First, we can give you a sedative and inject a painkiller into your cervix. You'll be awake, but you won't feel much. Or we can administer anesthesia, which would be done intravenously. You'll sleep through the procedure. Most women choose the first option." 

I don't even think about it. "I want the anesthesia. I don't want to be awake." 

"You'll stay in the recovery room longer with the anesthesia. Usually, we keep you an hour with the sedative. With anesthesia, we prefer an hour and a half or two hours. Just to ensure there's no complications or infection." 

"That's fine. Do I need to sign something?" 

Dr. Redmond nods and removes a form from my chart. "Here is the waiver. Please sign here and here." She hands over the form for me to sign. While I sign, she tells me about the anesthesia and the risks it involves. I barely hear her. I just want this over with. "I'll get my nurse," Dr. Redmond tells me after I've signed. 

I sit on the exam table with my hands folded in my lap. I bite on my lip and fight back my tears. I know I'm making the right decision. At least I probably am. I tug on my paper gown and try not to think about it. 

Dr. Redmond returns with her nurse. She asks me to lie back and I obey. I stare at the ceiling and listen to them move around the room. Dr. Redmond and her nurse talk - sometimes to me, but mostly to each other. The nurse takes my right hand and starts the IV. She stands beside me then, my hand resting in hers and in her other hand, she holds a syringe. 

"Okay, Shannon, we're about to begin," Dr. Redmond says in a calming voice. "Are you ready?" 

"I'm ready," I whisper. 

"Please count backwards from ten," the nurse instructs and sticks the needle into the IV. 

"10…9…8…7…" 

When I open my eyes again, it's over. 


	61. Chapter 61

Dr. Redmond and her nurse keep me in the recovery room for an hour and a half. I spend most of the time lying on a cot, sleeping. I feel very tired. I don't feel much else. I think I should feel sad or regretful or relieved. But I don't feel anything. I am just here. 

When I am released from the recovery room, the nurse walks me out to the waiting room, running through the after care instructions once more. She gave me a sanitary napkin when the procedure was finished and I'm supposed to wear one for the next few days. She says sporadic bleeding is normal and I may experience some cramps as well. She reminds me not to bathe or douche for at least a week, although I may take a shower as soon as I like. In two weeks, I'll have a follow-up at Dr. Wallingford's office. Otherwise, there isn't much left to do. Everything's taken care of. It seems so quick and tidy. I don't think it should seem this easy. 

Mrs. Ellenburg's still in the waiting room as promised. She isn't reading her magazine anymore. She doesn't appear to be doing anything at all. She's simply sitting, straight and tall, legs crossed with her reading glasses perched on her knee. She isn't looking in my direction. She's staring the other way, toward the front windows, massaging her left temple. There's a tissue wadded in her hand. 

I stop beside her chair. "Mrs. Ellenburg?" I say, quietly. "I'm ready to go." 

She turns her head toward me. It looks like she may have been crying. "You're ready?" she replies. "All right." She picks up her glasses from her knee and stands, sliding the glasses into her purse. Whatever I saw a moment ago has passed. She looks as calm and self-assured as ever. "How are you feeling?" she asks me. 

I shrug. "I'd like to go home now," I say. 

"All right," Mrs. Ellenburg says and lifts my messenger bag off the chair and slides it over her shoulder. She holds my coat out to me. 

"Thank you," I tell her and slip my arms into the coat sleeves. I busy myself with the buttons as we walk out of the clinic, taking an extra long time to fasten them and then even more time messing with my scarf. I am able to pass the protesters without glancing at them once. 

We don't speak on the drive back to Stoneybrook. I stare out the window. I still feel numb, but even so, I cry a little. I keep my face turned away so that Mrs. Ellenburg doesn't see. If she notices me wiping at my eyes, she doesn't mention it. 

Of course, no one's home when we pull into my driveway. Mom's still in Hawaii and I haven't seen Dad since the night he asked Mrs. Ellenburg if she was our new cleaning lady. Tiffany promised to keep Maria away from the house for most of the afternoon and evening. She and Tyler are taking Maria to an early dinner and movie. Maria invited David Michael along and claims the four of them are double dating. 

Mrs. Ellenburg walks me to the front door still carrying my bag. We walk slowly because not only am I tired, I'm starting to cramp. It's mild, not much worse than the menstrual cramps I typically experience, but then they are worse because I know what they're from. We go inside the house and Mrs. Ellenburg instructs me to rest on the couch in the living room. My bedroom and warm bed sound more appealing, but climbing the stairs does not. 

"When will someone be home?" Mrs. Ellenburg asks me when I've settled on the couch. 

"I don't know," I answer. "My sisters won't be home until later, but my friend, Kristy, said she'd come over and stay with me. I don't know when she's coming." I'm surprised she isn't here already with the way Kristy likes to wait at her window and watch my house. 

"I'll wait with you until she comes then," Mrs. Ellenburg says and sits down in an armchair opposite me. 

"You don't have to, Mrs. Ellenburg. You've wasted enough of your time on me today." 

"I don't waste time," she replies. "This was important to Wesley and important to you. Now, would you like something to drink? I can get you a glass of juice or make you some tea." 

"Tea would be nice," I say. 

Mrs. Ellenburg rises from the armchair and strides out of the living room. I listen to her moving around in the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets. Then I hear her speaking to someone, which at first perplexes me until I realize she's on the telephone. She called Wes as promised. I wish I could hear her words, but she speaks too softly. I reposition myself on the couch, so I'm flat on my back. I stare down at my stomach and hesitantly, gingerly, touch it. Several tears break free from my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I wonder what I've done. I wonder if I've made a mistake. 

Mrs. Ellenburg returns with my tea. She made jasmine tea, which is my favorite. "You don't have any food in your kitchen," she informs me, handing over the cup of tea. 

"Are you hungry?" 

"No, I'm not hungry. I was going to make you something to eat." 

"The A&P delivers our groceries tomorrow." 

"Well, maybe there's a can of soup in the pantry. You need to eat." Mrs. Ellenburg disappears back into the kitchen before I can point out that I'm not hungry. 

I blow on my tea and take timid sips. The electric can opener buzzes in the kitchen. Then I hear what sounds like the dishwasher opening and pots and pans clanging and clattering. I close my eyes. Oh, dear Lord, now she's cleaning my kitchen. If I had any real emotion left, I'd been terribly embarrassed. But I am tired and numb and feel nothing more, except perhaps a passing sadness that rises and falls within me. 

A few minutes later, Mrs. Ellenburg reappears with an olive green bowl in her hands. "It's very hot," she tells me, extending it toward me. 

I take the bowl, the smell of tomato and herbs wafting into my nostrils, making me vaguely ill. In the distance, I hear the dishwasher kicking to life with a new cycle. "Thank you, Mrs. Ellenburg," I say, stirring my spoon in the thick red liquid. "You didn't have to load the dishwasher though." 

"I've loaded a dishwasher or two in my life," she replies, breezily, and sits down in the armchair, crossing her legs. "Your house is a disaster," she informs me and runs a finger over the coffee table beside her chair. She studies it. "When are you getting a new cleaning lady? What happened to the old one?" 

I blow on my soup and don't look at Mrs. Ellenburg. "I yelled at her and she quit." 

"You yelled at the cleaning lady?" 

I nod and take a tentative sip of the soup. It's still too hot. It burns my lips. "She called Social Services about my parents. She told a social worker some of the things my sisters and I had been doing," I say, still staring into my soup. "So, I yelled at her. I don't remember exactly what I said. I think I may have called her a spinster. Oh, and that she was just the hired help." 

"That was certainly rude," remarks Mrs. Ellenburg. "Why would you say such things? Is that how you always treat people who try to help you?" 

I shrug and continue stirring the soup. 

Mrs. Ellenburg allows a few moments to pass, then says, "I spoke to Wesley. He's relieved that the procedure went well. He hopes your recovery goes smoothly." Mrs. Ellenburg pauses, considering her next words. "In the car, you said that Wesley always had wonderful things to say about Dennis and I. He always had very flattering things to say about you, as well. And according to Ginger Carson, you could likely walk on water if you so desired. I'm uncertain how much stock to put in anything Ginger claims, however, my son, as foolish and naïve as he may sometimes be, is generally a reliable judge of character. I think you are a very confused girl, Shannon, and you've made some terrible, selfish mistakes, but deep down, I believe you are the girl my son loved." Mrs. Ellenburg pauses again and watches me a moment, and then she leans over and picks up her purse. "I have something else for you." 

I sip my soup, watching her thumb through the side pocket of her purse. She pulls out another piece of stationary, the same as the stationary she handed me in the car. She brings the paper to me and I set my bowl on the coffee table to take it from her. I stare at it. At the top, of course, there is _From The Desk Of…Molly Stratten Ellenburg_ and then below are numbered names and telephone numbers. Each name has _Doctor_ before it. 

"Who are these people?" I ask, faintly. 

"Therapists," Mrs. Ellenburg answers, simply, returning to her chair. She sits in it straight and tall, poised as always, and folds her hands over her knee. "Wesley is concerned about you. He thinks you need to speak to a professional. I agree. I've compiled a list for you of therapists I am familiar with. Please consider seeing one. You're a smart girl, but you are very mixed-up about love and sex. Your parents have failed you there. I suspect they've failed you in many aspects. Your parents' problems are not your own, Shannon. Their problems have nothing to do with you. You need to remember that and work toward building a better life for yourself. A therapist can help you do that." 

I continue to stare at the list. "I know who Dr. Kasey Petrinski is," I say, dully. "She's a psychiatrist, not a therapist. She works with crazy people." 

"Not all people who go to psychiatrists are crazy. Many are simply confused. But if it bothers you, not everyone on the list is a psychiatrist. You could see a regular therapist." 

"Maybe," I say and fold the paper in half. I slip it into the pocket of my coat, which is lying across the back of the couch. 

"I hope you'll seriously consider it, Shannon." 

I nod and reposition myself on the couch, so I'm leaning back against the arm. "I promise, Mrs. Ellenburg," I tell her, quietly, and cross my arms over my chest, holding myself. "But my mom may think it looks bad. She cares a lot about appearances. It matters a lot to her what other people think of her." 

"Well, your mother's a nitwit," Mrs. Ellenburg says, bluntly. 

I almost smile, but I'm too worn out to make the effort. "She doesn't want to be a mother anymore. That's what she told me. She said I don't need her any longer and that it's time she considered her own needs. She said I made the choice years ago and pushed her away." 

"That's ridiculous," Mrs. Ellenburg scoffs in disbelief. "You never stop needing your mother. And a person doesn't decide to quit being a mother simply because it becomes too hard or too boring or something more attractive comes along. Your mother is incredibly selfish and she's blaming you to make herself feel better. Your father is just as guilty of being shallow and neglectful. Wesley told me all about your father and his Kathleen Turner look-alike prostitutes. That's absolutely disturbing. It's even more disturbing that apparently, your father encouraged you to have Wesley in your bedroom. It's no wonder you're so confused." 

I bite my lip and nod again, continuing to hold myself. "My dad knew about Wes, you know. He knew Wes was a lot older and that I was lying to him. Our neighbor told Dad. Dad thought it was amusing. He was excited that I wasn't frigid like his high school girlfriend, who beat him up at the prom and had some sluttish sister named Whackin' McCracken. Dad likes to tell me about them." 

Mrs. Ellenburg purses her lips and studies me a moment. "I never thought that nickname was funny," she says, stiffly. "It was very sad when Margolo committed suicide, but then, very sad things often happen to girls with wicked, spiteful mothers. You must endeavor to rise above the poor example set by your parents, Shannon. Not every girl gets a second chance." 

I can only nod, not knowing what to say. 

The doorbell rings, then there's a loud knock on the front door. Mrs. Ellenburg rises from the armchair and crosses the living room into the foyer. She disappears from my line of vision. I hear her heels click on the tile and then the front door opens. The next thing I hear is Kristy's voice saying, "Hi, I'm Kristy Thomas from across the street. I told Shannon I'd come over." 

The front door closes, but Mrs. Ellenburg and Kristy don't appear right away. I hear the hush of their voice speaking lowly in the foyer. They're talking about me. Finally, Mrs. Ellenburg's heels move along the tile and she reappears with Kristy trailing behind her. Kristy carries a shopping bag in one hand and looks disturbingly Christmas-y in a black sweatshirt with _Ho Ho Ho_ written in red and green sequins and brightly threaded Christmas lights winding around the words. There's a red plaid headband in her hair. 

"How are you feeling?" Kristy asks me, coming into the living room. 

I shrug. "Okay, I guess," I answer. "I'm really tired." 

Mrs. Ellenburg lifts her purse onto her shoulder. Just like that she's leaving. I'm sort of disappointed. 

"She just ate," Mrs. Ellenburg informs Kristy. "Here are the after care instructions." Mrs. Ellenburg removes a blue sheet of paper from her purse. "There's a twenty-four hour hotline to call in case there are any complications. And here, I'll write down my number for you." Mrs. Ellenburg snatches the paper from Kristy's hand and digs through her purse for a pen. She scribbles out her phone number, then gives the paper back to Kristy. "She should really eat again later. Of course, there's no food in this house. Certainly, you have food at your house though. Make sure she rests, no strenuous activity. It's all there on the paper." 

"I'll take good care of her," Kristy promises, reading over the after care instructions. 

"All right," Mrs. Ellenburg says and comes to stand beside the couch. She looks down at me. "I hope you'll think about what we discussed, Shannon. Seriously think about it. You don't want to become embittered like your mother, or live in the past like your father." Mrs. Ellenburg places her hand on my shoulder. "I'll call to check on you tomorrow. Good luck, Shannon." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Ellenburg," I reply. "For everything." I realize I should say more, but no other words come. 

Mrs. Ellenburg removes her hand from my shoulder and turns, striding out of the living room. She says goodbye to Kristy and disappears into the foyer. I listen to the retreat of her heels and then the opening and closing of the front door. I realize I'll probably never see her again unless it's by accident. 

"She seems nice," Kristy tells me. "Kind of bossy though." 

I manage a weak smile. "She's efficient," I say. 

Kristy comes further into the living room and sets her shopping bag on the coffee table. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get over here," she apologizes. "Mom, Watson, Nannie, and Charlie were getting ready for the Carsons' party and the kids were out of control. I told Mom you were sick and I promised to watch over you. Linny and Hannie just arrived, so I could finally come over. I don't think the kids realized Linny is actually their baby-sitter. Anyway, Nannie sent me over with some stuff for your family. She and the kids have been baking all week. There's peanut brittle and frosted sugar cookies and pumpkin rolls. I don't suppose you want anything?" 

I shake my head. 

"Just thought I'd ask. I'll take them into the kitchen. Are you done with your tea and soup?" 

"Yes," I reply with a nod. "Could you bring me a glass of juice? Anything but apple." 

"Yep," Kristy says and disappears into the kitchen. She returns a couple minutes later with a tall clear glass filled with pineapple juice. 

"Thanks, Kristy," I say, taking the glass from her. 

"Sure," Kristy replies and sits down on the coffee table in front of the couch, folding her legs Indian-style. I eye her for a moment over my glass, but decide it doesn't matter. The table's already covered in three inches of dust, what does it matter if Kristy sits on it? "So…" Kristy begins. "How was it? I mean…" Kristy's cheeks turn vaguely pink. 

I look down into my glass and shrug. "It was…I don't know. Quick, I guess. I was there for almost three hours, but most of that was filling out paperwork and meeting with a counselor and then sitting around afterward waiting to be released. The…the procedure only took about ten minutes. I wasn't awake. It was strange, I guess. I was pregnant and went unconscious, then ten minutes later I woke up…not pregnant." I pause and slosh the pineapple juice around in the glass, then raise it to my lips and drain it. "I feel sort of relieved, kind of like this weight's been lifted off me. But then, I also feel a little sad. Do you think that's wrong? Do I have a right to feel sad about it? I chose to do this." 

Kristy frowns slightly, thinking. After a moment, she says, "No, I think it's probably normal to feel like that. I know it was a hard decision for you, Shannon. It's okay to have mixed emotions about it. This shouldn't be easy. It'll take you awhile to sort out your feelings." 

"I know," I say, quietly. "The abortion won't fix everything." I drag my finger around the rim of the glass, thinking. "I sort of wish things could have been different. I don't think I'm ready to raise a baby, but…if my life was different, I could have had it and given it up. Maybe what I did was selfish. I took the easy way out." 

"I don't think what you did was easy. I couldn't have done it." 

"That's because you're a better person than me." 

"I'm not better than you. Just different." 

Upstairs, my telephone rings. 

"That's probably Greer or Sally," I say to Kristy. "I don't really want to talk to anyone right now." 

"Okay," Kristy says and jumps up from the coffee table. She dashes out of the living room and thunders up the stairs. She returns a few minutes later, carrying a stack of clothes in her arms. "That was Greer," she explains. "She wanted to check on you. I told her you're doing okay, considering. She said she'll try to call tomorrow, but may not have a chance until the afternoon." Kristy comes back around to the couch. "Here, I brought you a change of clothes. What you have on doesn't look very comfortable." Kristy shakes out an old pair of black sweats and a faded Camp Eerie t-shirt from three summers ago. 

I undress right in the living room. Kristy's right. The sweats and t-shirt are a lot more comfortable. Kristy folds my other clothes and takes them upstairs. While she's gone, I slip into the downstairs bathroom to check my sanitary napkin. I've spotted a little, but not as much as I expected. While I'm in the bathroom, I hear my telephone ring again. Kristy must be on her way back downstairs because her feet pound up the stairs again. 

I tie my hair back with a green ribbon someone left on the sink. Probably Maria. My make-up is smeared again. I wet a washcloth and use the chamomile soap to wash my face. It leaves my skin feeling tight, but I look a bit better. 

"That was Sally," Kristy informs me when I return to the living room. "She and her parents just arrived in New York. She was calling from the car phone. I told her the same thing I told Greer. Sally also said she'll call you tomorrow. Right now, she and her parents are on their way to dinner and then a Broadway show. They're seeing _The Mikado_, which sounds really boring. Oh, I guess you don't care about that. Do you want some more juice?" 

I shake my head and sit back down on the couch. "Not right now," I tell her and begin pulling on the socks Kristy brought with her on her last trip. "I wish I was on my way to a Broadway show." 

Kristy doesn't say anything right away. She just looks sort of uncomfortable. "Well…" she finally says. "Maybe we could go sometime before school starts again. If you feel like it. I'm sure Sally could tell us exactly what we should see." Kristy rolls her eyes. "I suppose Sally's not _that_ horrible anymore. Or at least she's no longer the most vile person on the East Coast. She's definitely in the top ten though." 

I smile and lay back down on the couch. "Anna's back in town," I tell Kristy. 

"Yeah, I know. Abby told me this morning that Mrs. Stevenson was picking Anna up in New Haven. Then I saw the three of them get in the minivan about an hour ago while I was waiting to come over here." 

"I wonder what's going on with them," I say. 

Kristy knits her eyebrows together. I'd forgotten she's totally in the dark. "Yeah…" she says, slowly, still looking confused. "Abby and Anna are a little odd," she finally says. "So is Mrs. Stevenson." 

For some reason, I start to cry. I don't know what triggers it. Certainly not the mention of the Stevensons. The tears simply fall unceremoniously and unprovoked. I cover my eyes with my hand, like I need to hide anything from Kristy now. Or from anyone at all. I sob behind my hand, wracking sobs that shake my entire body. They hurt. They physically hurt. I feel Kristy's hand on my arm. She's moved to the floor beside the couch. She kneels there next to me, stroking my arm. I lose track of time, but I think I cry for quite awhile. 

When I finish, Kristy fetches a damp washcloth for my face. Then she brings me another glass of juice. This time she brings strawberry-banana. We have no food in our house, but apparently, we have an endless supply of juice. I laugh. I laugh a strange and horrid laugh. Then I drink the juice in a single gulp. 

"Feel better?" Kristy asks, taking the empty glass from me. 

I nod and wipe my mouth on the washcloth. 

"Good," Kristy says and sets the glass on the coffee table, and then she sits back down on the floor beside the couch. 

"You know what I was just thinking?" I ask her. 

"What?" 

"Right now, Greer is at a Christmas party, drinking spiked eggnog and dancing inappropriately with boys she doesn't know – " 

"While her parents turn a blind eye," Kristy continues. 

"And Sally White's ordering dinner in some swanky New York restaurant, probably acting pretentious and weird. And I am here." 

Kristy takes my hand in hers. "And I'm here with you." 


	62. Chapter 62

Saturday, I wake up on the couch around one o' clock. I've not been here all night and all morning. I slept last night in my own bed, slept very heavily thanks to the sleeping pill Tiffany took from Mom's medicine cabinet. The sleeping pill has left me groggy and exhausted. I was awake for a while this morning, but apparently, just took a three hour nap. I pull myself into a half-sitting position on the couch, rubbing at my eyes. Tiffany's stretched out on the floor by the entertainment center, reading a gardening magazine and eating a piece of peanut brittle. 

Tiffany hears me move and glances up. "You're awake," she says and pushes up onto her knees. "Are you ready for lunch? The grocery delivery came. Maria and I already had macaroni and cheese. We ate all of it, but I can make you something else." 

I shake my head. Tiffany made me instant oatmeal this morning. I ate almost half of it and immediately felt ill. Then I drank the rest of the pineapple juice followed by the remainder of the strawberry-banana juice. I may be developing some sort of juice addiction. "No," I reply, still shaking my head. "Can you get me a glass of ice water though? My throat's really dry. Oh, and a glass of juice. Not apple." 

Tiffany nods and hops up. She disappears into the kitchen. I slide off the couch and go into the downstairs bathroom. I wash my face with the chamomile soap and brush my hair with an old hairbrush I find in a drawer. I rinse my mouth out. I should really brush my teeth. I check my sanitary napkin, but I've not spotted any more today. I hope that's over. I bled quite a bit last night, which brought on another rush of tears and melancholy. I felt wrung out and wasted. I want this to be over, completely over. I don't need little reminders of what I've done. But I'm uncertain if this will ever be completely over. 

Tiffany waits for me in the living room with the glasses of water and juice. I drink most of the ice water, then settle back on the couch and sip the grape juice. 

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?" Tiffany asks. She's now eating a sugar cookie shaped like a Christmas tree. It's slathered high with yellow frosting and green sprinkles. 

"No thanks," I say, shaking my head. 

Tiffany regards me a moment, a tiny frown on her face. "You can't just drink all the juice in the house," she tells me. "You need to eat actual food. You're going to make yourself ill." 

I shrug. I already feel ill, so what does it matter. I sip my juice. "I'm fine, Tiffany. I just want juice now. I'll eat later." 

Tiffany sighs and flops back in the armchair. She polishes off her cookie and licks a smear of frosting from her thumb. "You missed a parade of people while you were asleep," she informs me. "People are worried about you." 

"Really?" I reply, slightly surprised. 

"Yeah. Greer and that weird Sally girl called half an hour ago. They wanted to check up on you." 

"Were they together?" I ask, feeling disappointment I don't deserve to feel. Greer and Sally have a right to have fun in New York, together or alone. They have their own lives and their own families, and it _is_ the holidays. 

"Yeah, they were together," Tiffany says. "And Kristy came over right after you fell asleep. We didn't want to wake you though. She wanted to let you know that she and Charlie are driving up to New Britain. I guess Charlie was in such a rush to get home after the whole thing with…uh, Sam, you know, that he left Watson and Elizabeth's Christmas gift at school. So, Charlie and Kristy are driving up there. Kristy said she's going to visit Lindsey. What's Lindsey doing in New Britain? I thought she had mono." 

"She's seeing a mono specialist," I lie, automatically. There's a pang of guilt. Not really for lying to Tiffany, but rather for forgetting about Lindsey. I've been so wrapped up in myself and my problems lately that I've forgotten her. Out of sight, out of mind. How terrible of me. 

"Oh? Okay," Tiffany says, easily, not giving the lie a second thought. "Well, Kristy said she'll come over again when she gets home this evening. She said to tell you she won't be able to stay very long, probably, since tomorrow is Christmas Eve and there's a lot to do at her house." 

I smile slightly and nod. "That's fine," I say, which is sort of silly. It's not like Kristy's here to hear me. I am sorry she'll be gone until the evening though. She stayed last night until eleven, sitting around with me in the living room. Mostly, we watched television. I didn't feel like talking much more. Kristy was very understanding and never said a single unkind word, even though I know her stance on abortion has not changed. I shouldn't be surprised. Kristy is my friend. That's all she – in her brash, steamrolling way – has ever tried to be. Although, she did practically force feed me a bowl of chicken noodle soup last night. That wasn't very friendly. 

"And then," Tiffany continues, "that Mrs. Ellenburg called. She certainly is brisk, isn't she? I told her you were sleeping, but doing all right. And then Mrs. Bryar came by. She – " 

"Mrs. Bryar came by?" I interrupt her. 

"Yeah. She brought us some fudge. Don't worry, I wouldn't let Maria hide it in her bedroom like the brownies," Tiffany says. "Mrs. Bryar said she's been worried about us. She asked about you. I told her you have the flu." 

"Oh," I say, biting my lip. Suddenly, I feel very ashamed of how I spoke to Mrs. Bryar the last time I saw her. She only tried to help. Yesterday, I was simply embarrassed about how I treated her, partially because Mrs. Ellenburg seemed so disapproving, but now I feel truly guilty. "What else did Mrs. Bryar say? Is she mad at me?" 

"For yelling at her?" Tiffany asks, as if I possibly did something else to Mrs. Bryar. Oh, well, there was the incident with her final check. I feel my face turn hot just thinking about it. I can't believe I behaved so childishly. What Mrs. Bryar must have thought. "I don't know," Tiffany continues. "She didn't say anything about that. She didn't say much at all. She was in a hurry and looked really tired." 

"Oh," I say and finish the remainder of my juice. "How did I sleep through all this?" 

"I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have given you that sleeping pill," Tiffany replies with a shrug. She repositions herself in the armchair, throwing one leg over an arm. "How _are_ you feeling? Honestly now. Don't just say you're tired. I know that. I can see you." 

I smile, weakly, and set the empty glass on the coffee table. "I don't know," I answer and that's as honest as I can get. "I really don't. Mostly I feel empty. Sort of drained. Otherwise, it keeps changing. Sometimes, I feel so relieved and then other times, I feel remorseful. I can't decide if I made a mistake or not." I draw my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them. "And sometimes I…" I don't finish that thought. 

"What?" Tiffany asks. 

"It's nothing," I reply and look away. I can't admit to Tiffany what I'm thinking. Admitting it would mean I'm actually thinking it. Part of me…a small part of me…wishes Wes had wanted to marry me. And that is a secret thought, one of many secret thoughts, and I will bury it deep with the others. 

Tiffany doesn't speak for a moment. "I think you made the right choice, Shannon," she finally says. "I can't really understand what you're going through, but I think it will get better. Eventually, you'll be able to move on." 

"Mrs. Ellenburg wants me to see a therapist," I tell Tiffany. "She said Wes wants me to, too." 

"I wouldn't want to tell all my secrets to a stranger." 

"I don't know if I want to either," I reply. I watch Tiffany a moment and she watches me. "You're a good sister, Tiffany," I tell her. 

"Not always," she admits. "But I'll try to be better." 

"Me too." 

Tiffany smiles. "Maria and I are going to bake sugar cookies. We found a recipe for homemade frosting in one of Mom's old cookbooks." 

"Tiffany!" I exclaim. "Isn't there enough junk food already?" 

Tiffany tosses back her head and laughs, like I've said something truly hilarious. "Oh, God! You sound like the old Shannon!" she shrieks and laughs again. "And no, there isn't enough junk food. At least not any longer. Maria and I ate all the sugar cookies the Thomas-Brewers sent over and most of the peanut brittle. And Maria's eaten almost all of Mrs. Bryar's fudge." 

My mouth drops open. Didn't Mrs. Bryar come like an hour ago? That's disgusting! "You guys are going to make yourselves sick," I inform Tiffany. 

"Hey, at least we're eating," Tiffany replies, dismissively, and hops out of the armchair. She pauses beside the couch. "Go take a shower, then come supervise. If you feel like it, that is." 

Even though I took a shower last night, I take Tiffany's suggestion. The hot water feels fantastic beating against my body. I wash my hair twice with Tiffany's special mango shampoo that I'm actually not allowed to use since Tyler gave it to her. I think she'll forgive me this time. When I step out of the shower, I wrap myself in a fluffy yellow towel and run a brush through my wet hair, and then I brush my teeth. The latter feels especially nice. When I'm done, I wipe a hand over the fogged mirror so I may view myself. In my reflection, I look so fresh and clean. I wish that were how I felt. 

I change into a pair of burgundy plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt. I sit at my desk, towel drying my hair, and not thinking about much of anything, certainly not the emptiness that suddenly consumes me. It hits me in a flash, hits me hard and spreads, taking me over. I close my eyes tight and continuing toweling my hair. I fight the tears and for once, I win. 

There's a soft knock on the bedroom door. 

"Come in!" I call out. I try to sound upbeat, but the words come out strangled. 

The door opens a crack. Anna Stevenson peers in at me. 

I lower the damp towel to my lap and stare at her. I don't know what to say. Anna stares back. She doesn't know what to say either. 

"Can I still come in?" Anna finally asks. 

"Sure," I reply, nodding. 

It's the first words we've spoken to each other in over a month. 

Anna slips into the room and closes the door behind her. She looks different than the last time I saw her. She looks like the Anna I used to know, the Anna who used to be my close friend. There aren't any bags underneath her eyes. She looks well-rested, if a bit somber. She's dressed very casually in old jeans and a baby pink thermal shirt with her gray zip-up jacket. She's wearing the same sneakers as yesterday. She is the old Anna again. 

I am not the old Shannon. 

"I didn't hear the doorbell," I say. It seems like an easy beginning. 

"Maria opened the door while I was coming up the walk. You know, she's wearing a scarf tied around her face." 

"Yes, I know," I reply, nonchalantly. "I have the flu. Maria doesn't want to be sick for Christmas." 

"Oh, well, that makes sense…I guess," Anna says and sits down on the edge of my bed. "It's too bad you're sick for the holidays though. That's rough." 

I shrug. "It doesn't matter. We aren't doing anything anyway." 

"I saw your half-decorated tree in the living room. It looked really…great." 

"Tiffany and Maria lost interest," I explain. I pull my hands into my sleeves and fold my arms over my chest. Suddenly, I feel rather chilled. "How was your Hanukkah?" 

Anna shrugs. "I didn't really do anything. Mom, Anna, and I are leaving for the Hamptons tonight to have sort of a belated celebration with Gram Elsie and Grandpa Morris. I wish I could have come home sooner, but my school had its final exams this week. I would have liked to have gone to Emily's funeral. When I was still at SHS, I sometimes ate with Stacey and her friends, you know. They were always really nice to me. Well, most of them." Anna rolls her eyes. 

I nod, like I know exactly what she's talking about. 

"So…" Anna says. 

"So…" I echo. 

Anna drums her fingers on her knees and stares across the room out the window. She doesn't speak for a while. Finally, she turns back to me and says, "Shannon, I'm really sorry about cutting you out like that. All those times you called, I shouldn't have refused to come to the phone. I'm really sorry. I was just so screwed up at the time. I know you've been having your own problems here. I wasn't a very good friend, not like you tried to be to me." 

It's so strange hearing someone call _me_ the good friend and themselves the bad. 

"Abby told me what happened with that guy," Anna says. "I guess he found out." 

I bite my lip and nod. 

"Was he mad?" 

I continue to nod. 

Then I cry. 

I cover my eyes with my sleeve and sob into the crook of my arm. I hate that Anna's seeing me like this. I hate that someone I'm no longer close to is seeing me like this. And I hate that it's come to this, not just everything, but with Anna and me. 

"I'm sorry," Anna says, softly, still perched on the edge of my bed. 

I nod again and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. If only Anna knew, if only Anna knew the whole story. There was a time when she would have been my chosen one to tell. That time has passed. I wonder if it will ever come around again for Anna and I. 

I pluck a tissue from the box on my desk. I blow my nose and wipe away the rest of my tears. "I guess our roles are reversed," I tell Anna. My voice sounds terrible, all choked and congested. I blow my nose again. "The last time I saw you, you were a disaster. Now, I'm the mess and you look perfectly fine." 

"You have the flu. You have an excuse," Anna replies. "I didn't have an excuse. Well, I sort of did. But I could have been nicer and I could have listened more. And I'm not _perfectly_ fine. Just mostly fine." 

I toss my tissues in the wastebasket. "So…you and your mom?" I prod. 

Anna shrugs and squirms a little, uncomfortable. "Yeah…that," she says, quietly. "There was a lot more to that. I mean, I thought…" Anna's voice falls away and she glances back toward the window. "Mom and Abby came out to New Haven last weekend. They told me the truth. The truth about what Abby did. I know you know. Abby told me." 

"Are you mad at Abby now?" 

Anna shrugs again. "I don't know. I think I'm tired of being mad. I've spent almost six months being angry about something or other. It really hasn't done me any good. I've only been miserable and I've made everyone around me miserable. Abby was foolish and kind of selfish, but what's done is done. Ultimately, she's mostly hurt herself. Mom was able to put almost all my college money back and I'm going to get a music scholarship anyway. Probably, at least. And I never liked that car. Abby's paying for what she did already. There's no sense being upset with her." 

"This is like talking to a completely different person from a month ago," I comment. I'm quite astonished. 

Anna smiles a bit self-consciously. "I know. I've done a lot of thinking. And _a lot_ of talking." Anna rolls her eyes. "Adelaide is extremely persistent. I think her semester goal was to wear me down. It worked." The smile drops off Anna's face. She looks uncomfortable again. "I guess…I guess it was just easier to be mad at Mom. I mean, she hasn't been the greatest mother, not really ever that I can remember. She tries, sometimes, but not always. It's been hard since my dad died. For all of us. And all my memories of him are mostly good. I guess it was easier to blame Mom for everything instead of admitting that Dad may not have been this perfect husband and father, this perfect person. I already knew Mom wasn't perfect and it was just easier…" 

"I understand." 

"I still don't know exactly how I feel about the whole thing. What Dad did was pretty awful. I mean, he _left_ us. I know he came back, but I wonder…did he come back because he missed us or because he knew Mom was…" Anna closes her eyes and grits her teeth, "sleeping with Michael Bergman?" Anna shakes her arms and head, as if simply the thought of Mrs. Stevenson having sex with anyone is the most revolting thought in the world. If only she knew about my parents. "But I guess I'll never have an answer to that. And I'm not sure how I feel about Mom either. I know I've been unfair to her, but still…I don't know. I guess it'll take some time." 

"What about your sister? Your other sister?" 

"It's weird to think I have another sister," Anna replies and picks a piece of fuzz off her jacket. She flicks it onto the carpet. "She's thirteen and has her own family. Mom promises it's a good family. Maybe I'll meet her someday. Maybe, if she wants to meet me." Anna finally stops messing with her jacket and rests her hands in her lap. "Is it terrible of me to wonder what things would be like if Mom hadn't taken Dad back? I wonder if she ever considers that. She could have married Michael Bergman and started a new family. Well, a different family. Maybe she would have been happier. Maybe we all would have been." 

"You could drive yourself crazy thinking about that," I point out. 

"I know, I know. Sometimes, I can't help wondering though," Anna replies and raises her shoulders. "So…do you want to talk about you?" Anna asks. 

I shake my head. 

"Oh, well, okay," Anna says, then is silent for a minute. When she speaks again, she says, "I hope we're still friends, Shannon. You were one of my best friends and I should have treated you better." 

"We're still friends," I assure her, even though I'm not certain that's true. We can become friends again, I think. Just maybe not the friends we were. Things cannot simply go back, rewind, and play over the same. It's too bad life doesn't work like that. I would like to rewind the autumn, go back, and change who I've become. 

"I'm glad," Anna says and smiles. It's a genuine smile. A pleased smile. "It's unfortunate you're sick. You could come to the Hamptons with us. I mean, since you said your family doesn't have plans," Anna adds, quickly. She knows how my parents are. She knows they haven't changed. "I wish you could come though. It'd be nice to hang out with you again and catch up. You haven't been out to the Hamptons with us since last December. You missed last summer since you wanted to be with Mick instead of your friends." Anna raises an eyebrow and gives me a withering look. I know she's joking and it's kind of nice. It's so normal. Anna giggles. "And last summer, in the Hamptons – " 

"Anna," I interrupt her. "No offense, but I know what you're going to say and I've heard Kristy and Abby tell this story a billion times. I've heard it and seen it reenacted. I'm really not up for hearing it again right now." 

Anna closes her mouth and watches me a moment. 

"But have they reenacted it in their underwear?" she asks. 

I roll my eyes. "On several occasions. Abby nearly broke her neck one night attempting to leap over the back of my couch in her bikini briefs and sports bra." 

Anna laughs. I join in. Lightly, a bit hesitantly, but I still laugh. 

"No one was really in their underwear, you know," Anna tells me. She stops to think a moment. "Wait…Dawn _was_ in _her_ underwear," she says, thoughtfully. 

"Please never invite me to the Hamptons again," I request. I pluck a tissue out of the box and wipe my nose. I use another tissue to dab at my eyes. Tiny tears are leaking out and I can't stop them. 

"I should leave you alone," Anna says, standing up. "I can tell you don't feel well." 

I nod and rise from the desk chair. I walk Anna downstairs, taking the steps slowly. I see Anna to the front door, lean against it while she begins down the walkway. She turns partway down and offers a small wave. I wave back. Then I shut the door. I wonder if I'll ever tell Anna about the abortion. I wonder if we'll ever be that kind of friends again. Maybe. Maybe not. 

I find Tiffany and Maria in the kitchen, rolling out cookie dough. Their hair is dusted with flour. Tiffany's working the rolling pin while Maria presses the cookie cutters into the flattened dough. I smell a batch of cookies already baking in the oven. I don't admit it to Tiffany and Maria, but the scent makes me queasy. 

"Coming in for a late lunch?" Tiffany asks, airily. 

I scowl at her back. "I'll just have some more grape juice," I answer, removing a clean glass from the cabinet. I fill the glass to the brim. "I'm taking this up to my room. I'm tired," I say and start toward the door. "Your cookies smell delicious, by the way," I add. 

When I've left the kitchen, I hear Maria say to Tiffany, "She didn't breathe on anything, did she?" I don't have the strength to be offended. 

I pull my desk chair over to the window. I wrap myself in an oversize cardigan sweater and sit at the window, sipping my grape juice. I gaze out at the street. It snowed sometime today. Probably while I was asleep. It didn't snow hard, but a thin layer of white blankets most of the neighborhood. The streets have been cleared and I can see Anna's footprints going across my yard and hers. Then in the other direction, there's a second set crossing in front of Mrs. Porter's house, leading to the Thomas-Brewers'. And a third set of footprints that stop in my driveway. Mrs. Bryar's. It's odd seeing them, leading up and leading away, the footprints of people who worried about me. People I've not been very nice to, people who've not been very nice to me. I lean my head against the back of the chair, sipping the juice and thinking. I lose myself in my thoughts. 

I lose myself so deeply that an hour passes and I am stunned when the bedroom door bangs open and Mom breezes in. I sit up straight, startled, and stare at her. I didn't even know she was coming home today. I never thought to consider her return. 

"Well?" Mom demands, stopping in the center of my bedroom. Her skirt and blouse are rumpled. She has a lovely tan. "Did you get rid of it?" 

I nod, numbly. 

"Good," Mom replies and turns and leaves the room. She simply walks away. She doesn't ask who took me. She doesn't ask how I am. She simply walks away. She walks away like I am no one but a stranger and a nuisance. 


	63. Chapter 63

Sunday is Christmas Eve. 

It is another day at the Kilbourne house. Just any other day. Our half-decorated Christmas tree sits in the living room, jewel-colored glass bulbs sagging from its branches and underneath are small piles of wrapped gifts. From my sisters and I to each other. Our parents have gifts for us somewhere, gifts we chose ourselves from catalogues, marked the pages and circled the ID numbers and filled out the order forms. Mom wrote in her credit card number and sealed the envelopes. And that is her Christmas gift to us. 

Dad is still missing and no one seems to care. 

Upstairs, Maria's in her bedroom, listening to Christmas music on the radio and wrapping the rest of her gifts. She sings along, faintly. She was much louder half an hour ago until Mom yelled at her to shut up. Mom isn't in a very cheerful mood. She argued with someone on the phone earlier this morning. Likely Julian. She'll brighten this evening when it's time for the Jardins' party. That's where Mom's spending Christmas Eve. My sisters and I aren't attending. Tiffany's spending the evening with Tyler and his family, Maria's going to the Thomas-Brewers'. I don't know where I'm going. Maybe I'll go nowhere at all. I'll sit alone in my room or lay on the couch. I'll watch depressing television. I'll stay home with my thoughts and my relief and my guilt. 

I pop into Tiffany's bedroom. She's at her closet, pulling out dresses and skirts, holding them up in front of the mirror. 

"I'm thinking this one," she informs me, indicating toward her burnt-orange dress hanging on a hook beside the mirror. "Is it too fall-ish? Should I wear red or green instead?" 

I shrug and lean back against the doorway. "The orange dress looks great on you," I tell her. I wonder if I should point out that it also reveals far too much cleavage. I suspect Tiffany already knows. 

Tiffany holds the orange dress in front of her and tilts her head to the side. "Hm…well, Tyler loves this dress, but maybe I'll wear my green skirt with my green and white-striped sweater. Oh, I don't know!" Tiffany sighs, exasperated. She hangs the dress back in the closet and finally turns to face me. "You're dressed!" she exclaims, gleefully. 

I shrug and glance down at myself, self-consciously. It's not like I've been lounging around the house in my pajamas for weeks. It was only a day and a half. "I'm going out for a little while," I tell Tiffany. 

"Really? Is that okay?" 

"Yes, it's okay," I reply and try not to sound irritated. I know Tiffany's concerned, but I'm not a child. "I wasn't supposed to drive right after the…the procedure, but it's okay now," I assure her. 

"Oh, okay then. Be careful though. It's pretty slushy out there," Tiffany says. 

"I'll be careful," I promise. "And you know, it snowed again an hour ago." 

Tiffany cocks an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't notice. I've been busy choosing an outfit." 

_For an hour?_ But I bite my tongue. "I won't be gone long, probably," I say. 

"Okay," Tiffany says and turns back to the mirror. "Hey, have you eaten today?" she calls out as I'm walking away. 

I turn back and swing around the doorway. "I drank two glasses of orange juice and ate an apple," I answer. "I'm really not hungry, Tiffany. I'll see you later." I hurry away before Tiffany can lecture me. 

Downstairs, I button my coat over my sweater and wind a thick multicolored knitted scarf around my neck. Then I walk into the kitchen and stack some of Tiffany and Maria's frosted sugar cookies on a Christmas plate. Honestly, I think they made five dozen cookies yesterday. I helped a little when it came to decorating. I couldn't help very long though. It was too exhausting. I cover the plate with green plastic wrap and carry it out to my car. 

The inside of my car is freezing. My teeth actually chatter as I turn over the engine. I find a pair of gloves in my coat pocket, then crank the heater on full blast. I sit a minute, waiting for the car to heat up. I sit a minute, gathering my thoughts and my courage. Finally, I raise the garage door and back slowly out of the drive. As I roll cautiously down the snow-covered street, I pull the handwritten directions out of my purse. I had to call Kristy and have her ask Watson for help. I hadn't ever actually heard of Maguire Avenue until a few weeks ago when I opened the phonebook and looked up Mrs. Bryar's address. 

Despite the ups and downs of yesterday, making amends with Anna felt good. Our friendship isn't completely mended, it may never be, but we're at a new beginning. Perhaps, not a fresh start. We have too much baggage for that, but it is a start all the same. In the last few weeks, I've started mending relationships I suspected were forever lost – Greer and I, Kristy and I, Tiffany and I. And now things are falling back into place. Perhaps, slowly, but they are falling all the same. And now I'd like to repair other relationships, begin making amends with those I've hurt. For today, I've decided on Mrs. Bryar. 

Watson's directions take me clear across town. I drive through downtown and out past Birch Street. I feel a pang when I see Wes' apartment complex in the distance. A part of me still wishes things could have been different. I wonder if I'll always wish that or if that regret will someday dull away. 

I find Mrs. Bryar's neighborhood. It's an older part of Stoneybrook that I never realized existed. I creep slowly through the streets, trying not to skid in the snow while simultaneously trying to locate Maguire Avenue. Finally, I come to it. Watson's directions are a bit off, but at least he got me this far. I make a right onto Maguire and continue driving at a crawl, searching for number 155. I spot Mrs. Bryar's car before I see the house number. Her gray Honda's sitting in the driveway partially covered in snow. I pull over and park alongside the curb in front of a green Audi. I take a deep breath and climb out of the car. 

I stand a moment beside my car, holding the plate of Christmas cookies in my hands. I stare at Mrs. Bryar's house. The house looks sort of sad and lonely. It's a single story, beige with white trim. It's very bare. There aren't any Christmas lights or decorations. I glance around at the other houses. All around the houses appear ready for Christmas, looking cheery and bright with lights strung up along their trim and winding around the windows and bushes. The day is overcast and already some people have turned on their lights. Mrs. Bryar's house stands out, a dull spot against a brilliant backdrop. 

I open the gate on the chain link fence and close it quietly behind me. I considered calling beforehand, but worried about what to say. What if Mrs. Bryar requested I not come over? She may still be upset with me. I treated her very poorly. I move at a slow pace up the front walk, which has thankfully been shoveled. I don't knock right away when I reach the door. I stand and listen. Inside, the vacuum cleaner is running. I listen and almost chicken out. I almost turn and walk away. I raise my fist and hesitate, and then finally rap sharply on the door. Maybe Mrs. Bryar is having a lonely Christmas Eve, too. 

The vacuum cleaner shuts off. The curtain on the window next to the front door moves aside and Mrs. Bryar peeks out. She stares at me a moment, face expressionless, then moves the curtain back into place. The deadbolt turns and Mrs. Bryar cracks the door open. 

"Shannon, this is a surprise," she says in an even voice that doesn't reveal if it's a good surprise or a bad one. 

"Hello, Mrs. Bryar," I say, sort of shakily. "I'm sorry to drop in unannounced. Can I come in?" 

Mrs. Bryar looks at me a bit warily. It's strange seeing her somewhere other than my house. Sort of like when I was a kid and would see one of my teachers shopping at the A&P or eating in a restaurant. It throws me off-balance. Mrs. Bryar even looks different. She isn't wearing any make-up and is dressed in a blue terrycloth robe. It never occurred to me that Mrs. Bryar has a life away from my house. 

"Of course you may come in," Mrs. Bryar says after a moment. She glances briefly over her shoulder, then opens the door wider. "I'm not even dressed yet," she says, as if I didn't notice. "It's been a very chaotic week and I'm just catching up on my own housework." 

I stamp my boots on the doormat, then step inside Mrs. Bryar's house. "It's okay," I tell her as she shuts the front door. "I've never been to your house before." 

"I know." 

I glance around. All I can really see is the living room, which is decorated in beige and pale green. The room looks comfortable and normal and mostly tidy, except for today's newspaper strewn across the couch and several coffee mugs resting on the coffee table. Off the living room, through a partially open door, I can see into Mrs. Bryar's bedroom. She's hasn't made her bed. The pale green comforter is in a tangle, half on the bed and half off. I guess Mrs. Bryar likes the color green. 

Mrs. Bryar adjusts her glasses and smoothes down her dark hair. "Well…would you like to sit down?" she asks. 

"Sure," I reply and follow her into the living room. "How long have you lived here?" 

"About twenty-five years, I guess. Since before the divorce." 

"How long have you been divorced?" I ask and am vaguely surprised that I've never asked before. It never occurred to me to ask. 

"Oh, I don't know. Twenty-one, twenty-two years. A long time," Mrs. Bryar answers and sits down in a beige armchair. She gestures for me to take the armchair opposite hers. 

I lower into the armchair, holding the plate of cookies on my lap. I've forgotten what I intended to say. Mrs. Bryar crosses her legs and folds her hands over her stomach. She bounces her right foot, so the blue slipper on it rocks back and forth. She stares at me. I stare at her. 

I've completely lost all ability to speak. 

"Tracey, honey, have you seen my glasses?" a male voice booms from the direction of the bedroom. 

I sit up very straight, startled. Mrs. Bryar has a man in her bedroom? What is a man doing in Mrs. Bryar's bedroom? 

"Did you check your face?" Mrs. Bryar calls back. 

There's a short pause. 

"Thank you!" 

I'm certain my eyes nearly pop out of my skull. There _is_ a man in Mrs. Bryar's bedroom. It's an effort to keep my jaw from dropping. Mrs. Bryar, for her part, acts like nothing is amiss. She continues staring at me, face impassive, jiggling her foot. However, I believe I detect a faint flush of pink in her cheeks. 

The man appears in the doorway of the bedroom. He's tall, late-forties with damp black hair that's graying at the temples. He's wearing a pilot's uniform and holding a suitcase in one hand. He appears just as startled to see me as I was to hear him. 

"Oh…" he says. "I didn't hear the door." 

Mrs. Bryar turns her head to look at him and holds out her right arm. She beckons to him with a finger. He sets down his suitcase and comes into the living room, stopping beside Mrs. Bryar's chair. She touches his hand. 

"This is Malcolm," she says to me. "Malcolm, this is Shannon." 

Malcolm smiles sort of vaguely. "Oh…you're Shannon," he says, flatly. He must realize his tone because he steps forward and extends his hand, his smile becoming less vague. "It's nice to finally meet you," he says. "I've heard a lot about you and your sisters." 

I shake his hand, still feeling a bit stunned. I've never heard anything about _him_. And dear Lord, _what_ has Mrs. Bryar told him about my sisters and me? I have a feeling she's told him _everything_. I feel my chest grow hot and hope it doesn't travel to my face. 

"It's nice to meet you, too," I manage to say, politely. 

"Are you cold?" he asks me. 

"No…why?" 

"You're wearing a scarf and coat." 

Now my face does turn red. I feel it grow warm. "Oh," I say and set down the plate of cookies. I begin unwinding the scarf. 

"You can keep that on," Mrs. Bryar tells me, as I begin undoing the buttons on my coat. She smacks Malcolm lightly in the side. "Don't be so rude," she scolds him. 

"Sorry," he says to me. 

I struggle out of the coat sleeves and don't reply. This has not gone as planned. 

Malcolm rests a hand on Mrs. Bryar's shoulder and looks down at her. "I'm going over to my brother's and then to the airport. I'll see you in a couple days," he tells her and then leans down and kisses her on the mouth. It's vaguely disturbing. And it isn't a peck either. There's actually a man _kissing_ Mrs. Bryar. 

"You smell like pink grapefruit," Mrs. Bryar informs him when he straightens up. She sets her hand on his and smiles up at him almost adoringly. Again, it's vaguely disturbing. 

"I'm not bothered," he answers. "Besides, you're the one who ordered me to take a shower. I'll call you later." He kisses Mrs. Bryar's forehead. "It was nice to meet you, Shannon," he says to me. I'm shocked he remembered that I'm here. 

"You too…Malcolm," I reply. I'm still confused. "Um…have a nice flight." 

We watch him leave. 

"Is that your boyfriend?" I ask, bluntly, the moment the door shuts behind him. 

"No, it's a man I picked up at a bar last night," Mrs. Bryar replies. "Of course he's my boyfriend." 

"Does he live here?" 

"No. He lives in Stamford." 

"I didn't know you have a boyfriend." 

"Well, you never asked." 

I guess that's true. I never thought to ask. I pick up the plate of cookies from the floor and set them back on my lap. There's an awkward silence. 

"He's handsome," I finally say, pleasantly. "A bit somber-looking though," I add. "And I'm not sure about his manners." 

"His niece just died," Mrs. Bryar snaps. "And he can't take any more time off from work because of the holidays. Give him a break." She pushes a lock of dark hair away from her face. "And really, Shannon, you're not exactly someone who should be criticizing other people's manners." 

My cheeks flush again. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bryar," I apologize. "That was rude of me." 

Mrs. Bryar's face softens. "Oh, well, you didn't know. It's all right, Shannon. I shouldn't have snapped at you." 

"No, it's okay," I reply because I know I deserved it. I don't say anything for a moment. Finally, I hold the plate of cookies out to her. "Tiffany and Maria made these. I helped some with the decorating though. Don't worry, I tried one last night and they're completely edible. Merry Christmas." 

Mrs. Bryar leans forward and takes the plate from my hands. She looks down at the cookies and smiles, appearing rather pleased. "Thank you, Shannon. This is very thoughtful of you," she says. "Of course, I'm Jewish." 

"You _are_?" I gasp. "Since when?" 

"Well, it's not exactly a new development. I've always been Jewish. But thank you very much for the cookies." 

"Bryar doesn't sound very Jewish," I comment. 

"Oh, well, my ex-husband isn't Jewish," Mrs. Bryar replies and sets the plate on the coffee table. "And I never went back to my maiden name because seventeen and a half years as Tracey Zaretsky was more than enough. Would you like something to drink, Shannon? I should have asked when you got here." 

"No. I'm fine. Thank you though." 

There's a short silence. 

"I have something else for you," I announce, bending down to grab my purse. I pull out my wallet and remove a check from the cash sleeve. I hold it out to her. "Here. This is your Christmas bonus. Or, well, your holiday bonus." 

Mrs. Bryar waves her hand. "I can't accept that," she tells me. "I don't work for your family anymore." 

"No, no. It's yours," I insist, shaking the check at her. "You deserve it after everything you had to put up with. Not only from Mom, but from all of us. I realize now that it couldn't have been easy working for our family. And it's not like it's my personal money. It's coming from my parents." 

Mrs. Bryar hesitates, then finally reaches out and takes the check. "Thank you, Shannon," she says, simply. 

"You earned it. And if you notice, I spelled your name correctly. T-R-A-C-E-Y." 

Mrs. Bryar smiles. "Yes, I noticed. Thank you." 

"I don't think you look anything like a Tracey," I tell her. 

Mrs. Bryar laughs. 

I feel a little more comfortable. I feel ready to say what I came to say. I sit a bit taller in the armchair and fold my hands in my lap. "Mrs. Bryar?" I begin. "I want to apologize for how I spoke to you. I'm sorry that I lost my temper. I was unnecessarily rude to you. I realize now that you were only trying to help. I hope you'll accept my apology." 

"Of course. Thank you for offering it. I know that must have been difficult," Mrs. Bryar replies. She pauses a moment and regards me. "I want to apologize to you, too, Shannon. I handled the situation poorly. I should have tried to speak to you before telephoning Social Services. It's just that…well, your parents never listen to anything they don't want to hear and honestly, Shannon, you don't exactly listen very well either." 

I furrow my brow, confused. How can she say that? I'm an _excellent_ listener. 

"However," Mrs. Bryar continues, "I should have spoken to you about the things Maria told me, as well as the things I've noticed for quite some time. I like you very much, Shannon, and I care a lot about you and your sisters. I've watched your family disintegrate these last few years and I've felt very badly for you. But you've always been such a smart, responsible girl that I thought you had things under control. Your sisters seemed much better off with you than with either of your parents. And then it was quite a shock to learn the things you'd been up to. I should have approached the situation differently. I don't have any children and I don't have any nieces or nephews either, but I do remember what it's like to be a teenager and recall quite vividly what I was like at seventeen. I never wanted to listen to adults either. But even with that in mind, I should have handled things differently." 

"I would have done exactly what I wanted anyway," I respond, quietly. I know I would have. Nothing anyone said or did would have stopped me. I stare down at my hands in my lap. "You know…" I say, "I don't think I've ever heard you talk so much at one time." 

"Well, you always have so much to say," Mrs. Bryar replies. 

I furrow my brow again. What is that supposed to mean? 

"So…would you like to tell me about this teacher you've been dating?" Mrs. Bryar asks. She says it quite casually. 

I nod, biting my lip. I tell her about Wes. I tell her about how we met and how I lied to him. It's important that she know that, that she knows Wes isn't a pervert or a predator. I don't want anyone to ever think that of him. He's a good man who I tricked. And he really did love me. It's important that Mrs. Bryar understands that, too. I think it's an important part of the story. I end with Elizabeth's unmasking of my deception. I don't tell Mrs. Bryar about the visit to Wes' classroom. I definitely don't tell her about the baby. 

Mrs. Bryar listens without expression. When I finish, she simply asks, "Shannon, why would you do that?" 

"Why would I do what?" I reply. Is Mrs. Bryar purposely attempting to confuse me today? 

"Everything. Why would you do any of that?" 

"I wanted him to love me," I answer and feel the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Is it so hard for anyone to understand that? "All I wanted was for someone to love me." 

"So, you lied to him?" 

I think about it a second, then I nod. "He wouldn't have wanted me had he known the truth. I mean, obviously. He really did love me, Mrs. Bryar. He wasn't lying or pretending. He really loved me. And I thought that because of that he wouldn't leave me." I bite my lip again and look down at my lap. "I thought that…" 

"You thought what?" 

My cheeks grow warm. I can't look at her. "I thought…I thought that because we were having sex it would be harder for him to leave me. I thought that if I proved I loved him, he might love me back regardless." I sniffle, fighting back my tears. 

"Oh, Shannon…" Mrs. Bryar sighs. "That isn't how it works." 

I nod and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. I'm not actually crying, but the tears are near, threatening to burst free. I feel so stupid. I feel so clueless. I don't know anything. Everything I think is wrong. "It did make it harder for him," I tell her, "but he left anyway." I reach into the pocket of my coat, draped over the arm of the chair, and pull out a tissue. I hide tissues everywhere now. "I know what I did was wrong, but I really thought…I really thought that having sex would prove to him that even though I lied, my feelings were real. I thought the proof would be worth something." 

"That just…that just isn't how it works," Mrs. Bryar says again. "You don't have sex to prove something. You _shouldn't_ have sex to prove something. You'll only end up hurt and disappointed. You aren't the first girl to think that, Shannon. But the truth is, a guy isn't going to stay around simply because you have sex with him. That doesn't bind someone to you, Shannon. And having sex doesn't really prove anything other than that you're willing to have sex." 

"Then why have sex at all?" I ask. I wring the tissue between my hands. "What's the point? If it doesn't prove anything and it doesn't make him stay, then what's the point?" 

Mrs. Bryar opens her mouth but no words come out. She shifts her eyes from side to side. She doesn't close her mouth. "Oh, well…" she finally says. "It's…I'm really not sure I feel comfortable discussing this with you, Shannon." Mrs. Bryar pauses and rubs her forehead. She reconsiders. "Well…it's complex. When you're in a relationship, sex is another way to express your feelings for the other person. It brings you closer together and helps forge a deeper commitment. This isn't always true though, Shannon, and there are other ways to become close to someone. There's more to a relationship than sex. And…I'm really not explaining this very well. Intimacy is complicated, Shannon. Sex does not necessarily lead to love. I think you're confused about that. You can't expect to have sex with someone and then he falls in love with you. Nor can you expect to date someone for a month, have sex, and then he can never leave you." 

"How long then?" I ask. 

"How long for what?" 

"How long should I know someone before having sex with him? I asked Elizabeth once and she said I'd just know. _How_ do I know?" 

Mrs. Bryar opens her mouth again. She hesitates. "Oh…well, I don't have an answer for that. It's not like there's an exact timeline. Different times are right for different people." 

"How long did you wait?" I ask, blunt as can be. Maybe I've spent too much time with Kristy and Sally. I have no shame. 

"Excuse me?" replies Mrs. Bryar, her eyebrows shooting up. 

"Well, you're having sex with your boyfriend, aren't you? How long did you wait?" 

"Shannon!" Mrs. Bryar cries. Her cheeks definitely turn pink this time. "I can't believe you asked that! That's none of your business!" Mrs. Bryar touches a hand to her throat and looks extremely uncomfortable. "I would like to point out," she says, "that I am forty-eight years old and not seventeen. We waited much longer than one month and that's all I'm going to say." 

An awkward silence fills the room. I don't know what gets into me. I used to have so much more self-control. Now things simply pour from my mouth, lies and half-truths and cruel remarks. All things I thought myself far above. 

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bryar," I apologize. "That was rude of me." 

Mrs. Bryar purses her lips. She stays quiet. I wonder if she's finally had enough of me. 

"Oh…well, it's all right," she finally says. She's very forgiving. Much more so than me. "You know, Shannon," Mrs. Bryar says to me. "I think you are a lot more like me than I realized. Well, like me when I was a teenager. I always thought it was Tiffany. You were always so responsible and ambitious, which I never was. But now I see…" Mrs. Bryar tilts her head to the side and watches me, like she's really detecting something in me for the first time. "You know…" she tells me. "I was your age when I got married. I got married the same day I finished high school. I married the first guy who agreed to marry me because I wanted out of my mother and stepfather's house. I thought getting married would make me happy and solve all my problems. And, of course, it didn't. It only made everything worse. And I ended up in a terrible marriage and couldn't leave because I had nowhere else to go. My mother and stepfather wouldn't let me come home and I had no money and no skills and I'd never held a job. So, I stayed and stayed and I put up with a lot more than I should have. And then, one day, my husband just didn't come home from work. I waited and waited and three months later, I received divorce papers from El Paso, Texas. And I was exactly where I'd been eight years before. Only, I was even unhappier. So, Shannon, you can't count on someone else fixing your life. Sex, like marriage, isn't a cure for loneliness or unhappiness." 

I bite my lip. I've shredded the tissue to pieces and clutch them in my fist. Why didn't anyone ever tell me these things? So many things I should have known. I've seen how Greer and Sally look at me. They know I am naïve. They think I am stupid. That's what I am – a very, very stupid girl. Mrs. Ellenburg thought so. She was simply too polite to say it aloud. And Mrs. Bryar thinks I'm foolish. A foolish girl who should know better. A foolish girl who should not be so desperate for love that she lies on her back to get it. Tiffany once called me a whore. I wonder if I am one. A whore who killed her baby. 

"Mrs. Bryar?" I whisper. "Can I tell you something else? Something even worse?" 

Worry crosses her face, pulling at the tiny lines creasing at her eyes. "Of course, Shannon," she replies. 

"I had an abortion on Friday." 

Slowly, Mrs. Bryar raises her hand to her mouth. She holds it there. Her eyes are wide with surprise. She looks away from me. She stares out, elsewhere. She's appalled. She's repulsed. She can't even look at me. 

I start to cry. 

Mrs. Bryar removes her hand from her mouth. "Oh, Shannon…" she sighs and stands up. She takes my hands and says, "Get up," and so I obey. Mrs. Bryar takes me over to the pale green couch and sinks down onto it, pulling me with her. She puts her arms around me. She lets me cry onto the shoulder of her terrycloth robe. She strokes my hair. She says soothing words that I don't really hear. I like the sound of her voice. She has a very lovely voice. I never noticed before. 

I turn my head, resting my cheek on her shoulder. "Do you think I'm a bad person?" I ask. 

"No," Mrs. Bryar answers. "We all make mistakes. We all do things we regret. No one thing makes you a bad person, Shannon." 

"Before, I always felt abortion was wrong. I feel like such a hypocrite. I haven't made only one mistake. I've made an entire mountain of them, just one stacking on another. I _feel_ like a bad person." I let out a shuddering breath. It reverberates in my lungs and up my throat. "Do you think abortion is wrong?" I ask. 

"It doesn't matter what I think," Mrs. Bryar replies. An answer in the form of a non-answer. "I'm sure you made the choice you felt was best for you." 

"Maybe. I don't know," I tell her. I close my eyes. I'm so tired. Is this the rest of my life? Always tired, always dragging, always full of guilt and regret. Empty. "I thought about it a lot. Then I didn't think about it at all. I just wanted it over with. Sometimes, I'm so relieved. I'm relieved and ready to start again. And sometimes, I'm so remorseful that my entire body sags and it feels like nothing will be all right ever again. Will I always feel like that? Moving up and down like a yo-yo?" 

"I don't know. I doubt it. You'll feel like that for a while and one day, you won't feel it so much any more. With each day it will be less and less until you hardly think of it at all. Sometimes, you'll remember and be sad, maybe even regretful, but it won't dominate your life forever." 

It's comforting to think that may be true. I hope it is. I need hope. 

"He's really upset about it," I tell Mrs. Bryar. "Wes. He blames himself when he should blame me. I think I've destroyed a part of him. He'll never be the same again. I didn't mean to hurt him. His mother took me to the clinic for the abortion. She was actually worried about me. Do you know what Mom did when I told her I was pregnant? She slapped me. Then she ordered me to have an abortion and flew to Hawaii. She came home yesterday. She said to me, 'did you get rid of it?' and she hasn't spoken to me since. What's wrong with my mother?" 

Mrs. Bryar touches my hair. "I don't know. I think it's very unfortunate, though, that your mother takes for granted what some of us cannot have. I don't know what's happened to your mother, Shannon. I think she's just very bitter and disappointed at how her life has turned out." 

"I think you're very wise, Mrs. Bryar," I say. 

She laughs. 

"It's true," I say and wonder why I never realized it before. I knew she was a good listener. I knew she was sympathetic and understanding. She just never seemed to have much to say. I bite my lip, thinking. Maybe she is right about me. Maybe I don't listen and maybe I have too much to say all at once. Maybe I take up all the space and air someone else wishes to share. 

"Well, I haven't always been so smart," Mrs. Bryar assures me, rubbing my back. "I was very stupid when I was your age and I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot more mistakes than you at a much younger age and with a much greater frequency. I know this is a difficult time for you, Shannon, but if you learn from what you've done, eventually things will get better. I think, eventually, you'll be all right." 

I close my eyes, still resting my head on her shoulder. I hope she's right. I hope things improve from here. I've hit rock bottom. I'd like to climb back up. 

"Have you eaten?" Mrs. Bryar asks. "I've already had lunch, but I can make you something to eat." 

"I haven't been eating," I admit. I can't lie anymore. I don't have the energy. 

"Oh, well, you're about to start again," Mrs. Bryar replies, matter-of-factly and rises from the couch. She reaches out and takes my hands and pulls me up. She pulls me up again. 


	64. Chapter 64

**Author's Note:** I want to let everyone know that updates will likely become less frequent. _MLTS_ is nearly complete and I originally intended to finish by the end of this week. However, I've started a new job and am working like crazy. Plus, uni resumes in a week and a half. Just so everyone is aware. Thank you to everyone for reading, reviewing, and especially for e-mailing me present-day photos of Kathleen Turner. 

... 

There isn't a reason to get up early on Christmas morning, but Tiffany, Maria, and I do anyway. We wake at eight o' clock, brush our teeth, and dress, all the while pretending to be full of holiday spirit. We aren't convincing, but we pretend that, too. In their bedroom, Mom and Dad are passed out after pouring themselves into bed around three a.m. We're unsure where Dad's been all this time, but honestly, it doesn't even matter. 

Tiffany, Maria, and I sit around our half-decorated tree with Astrid, surrounded by meager piles of gifts. Mom and Dad's gifts have yet to materialize. Certainly, the gifts are in the same unopened boxes they arrived in from Karbergers, Macy's, and Bellair's. Perhaps, we will receive them someday. And then, perhaps, it doesn't matter at all. 

Tiffany, Maria, and I exchange our gifts to and from one another. I'm shocked that I ever finished my shopping, but then, it's not like I had many people to buy for this year. From Maria, Tiffany and I receive a set of a knitted scarf, hat, and gloves. Mine is raspberry and navy-colored, Tiffany's is black and red. I'm pleased that after everything Maria even bought a gift for me, and I am even more pleased that she appears excited when I put on the hat and wrap the scarf around my neck. I take baby steps with Maria, sometimes forward, sometimes back, but I take what I can get. 

"This is a bit daring," I remark to Tiffany, pulling the sweater she's given me on over my long-sleeved t-shirt. "It's kind of...low." 

Tiffany shrugs. She's busy messing with the mascara and eyeliner set I gave her. "You need daring," she replies, twisting off the top of the liquid liner and smearing it on the back of her hand. "Good shade," she says. 

"Thanks for the sweater," I tell her, even though I realize she's not paying much attention. I look down at the sweater. It's forest green with a scoop-neck that scoops dangerously low. Tiffany would consider this an appropriate Christmas gift. At least I can wear it over another shirt. I don't think I'm ready to be so daring. I may never be ready. 

"This make-up kit is _fabulous_," Maria informs me, picking through the case. 

"I'm glad you like it," I reply with a smile. 

"I do." 

In the kitchen, the oven timer dings. 

Tiffany jumps up. "The turnovers! I'll get them," she announces and dashes into the kitchen, as if an extra twenty seconds may cause the turnovers to burn beyond edibility. That's our special holiday breakfast - apple turnovers and cherry turnovers. Maria found the box buried in the freezer. Tiffany and Maria have eaten nothing but junk for the past three days, but I let it slide. We're getting along - mostly - getting along better than we have in weeks. Even if we don't have our parents, at least we have each other. I hope that I am still some small consolation. 

Christmas Eve was lonely. I stayed at Mrs. Bryar's for the better part of the afternoon. She's different than I thought. Not in a bad way. Just...different. I don't know why I never realized. I guess all these years that I've seen her as our cleaning lady and as my personal sounding board that, perhaps, I haven't truly seen her at all. That's something I need to work on. How to be a better listener and a better person. I've not been much of either lately. Maybe I've never been that great at either. I don't know. But I don't think I've ever seen myself clearly. I wonder who I really am and who I used to be and who I have become. 

When I returned from Mrs. Bryar's, Tiffany and Maria were already gone. Tiffany didn't come home from Tyler's until almost ten o' clock. Maria wandered in a few minutes later, loaded down with food and bursting with stories about the Thomas-Brewers. I had spent the evening on the couch watching holiday cartoons with Astrid. I drank half a container of pineapple juice. I ate, too. A bowl of cereal. A small bowl. But I ate. Baby steps, like with Maria and I. 

"Where's Tiffany with breakfast?" Maria asks me. She's smeared lime green eye shadow over her lids and peacock blue eye shadow beneath her eyebrows. Certainly, she does not intend to wear that outside. "We're supposed to be at the Thomas-Brewers' by twelve-thirty," she reminds me. "So, don't eat too much." 

I almost laugh. Me eat too much? "Don't worry about it, Maria," I assure her and take off my new hat. I fold it neatly into its box along with the scarf and gloves. "And I don't think I'll go to Kristy's," I say. Kristy and I may be friends again, we may even be good friends again, but there are certain members of her family I cannot face. I may never be able to face them again. "Maybe I'll go back over to Mrs. Bryar's. She's all alone." 

Maria sort of scowls. "_I've_ never been to Mrs. Bryar's house," she says, testily. "Why hasn't she invited me over? I've _always_ been nice to her." 

"She didn't invite me over. I just showed up. I told you that," I reply and lean back against the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me. I nudge Maria's knee with my foot. "Hey, did you know Mrs. Bryar's Jewish?" I ask. 

"Of course," Maria answers with a withering look. "I sent her a Hanukkah card." 

"Did you know she has a boyfriend?" 

"Yes," Maria says, giving me another look. She begins stacking her new cosmetics back inside their case. "His name is Malcolm and he's an airline pilot. I think she's in love, but she won't admit it. And I think he must love her because he helped pick the nits out of her hair after we gave her head lice." 

Oh, dear Lord, we gave Mrs. Bryar lice? As if our family hasn't done enough to her. What a horrible parting gift. And she never said a thing about it yesterday! 

"How do you know all this?" I ask Maria. 

Maria shrugs. "I don't know," she says. "I used to help her clean before you and Tiffany would get home from school. We would talk." 

"Oh." 

"Someone needs to load the dishwasher!" Tiffany announces, coming back into the living room, carrying a serving tray. "I had to hand wash these plates and forks," she explains, passing a plate from the tray to me and then one to Maria. "I don't know how to use that dishwasher." 

"Neither do I," I admit. We had a new dishwasher installed a couple years ago and I never bothered to learn how to use it. I knew how to use the old one. We also have a newer washing machine and dryer. I can't use those either. 

Maria sighs. "I know how to use it," she says. 

"Well, I'm sure I can figure it out," I say, hastily. It can't be that difficult. "We need something to drink though. Are there any clean glasses?" 

Tiffany shakes her head. She's already taken a mouthful of steaming hot apple turnover. I sigh and rise to my feet. I can hand wash three glasses. I am not completely incompetent. I am interrupted on my way to the kitchen, however, by shrieking. It's somewhere in the distance, outside, but finds its way into our house just the same. 

"What is that?" Tiffany asks, startled, jumping to her feet. 

The three of us race out of the living room and across the foyer to the front door. Maria makes it outside first. 

"Kristy got a car!" she shouts. 

In the Thomas-Brewers' driveway, tied with an enormous red bow sits a white Jeep Wrangler. Kristy's running in circles around it, shrieking and waving her arms. David Michael, Karen, Andrew, and Emily Michelle run behind her, also shrieking, also waving their arms. Watson, Elizabeth, Nannie, and Charlie stand a few feet away, laughing. 

"I want to see Kristy's car!" Maria yells and takes off down the front walk, sliding in her sneakers in the slush. 

"Don't break your neck!" I warn, taking the steps more cautiously. 

Maria reaches Kristy's house much sooner than Tiffany and I. We walk slowly. I walk hesitantly, but am not sure if Tiffany does, too, or if she's simply matching my pace, knowing my awkwardness. I wonder if she's also unsure where she stands with the Thomas-Brewers, how she reflects in their eyes. She never has told me what Elizabeth said to her after finding out about her and Sam. I wonder now. I glance over at Tiffany, walking cautiously through the slushy snow, arms hugging herself as she shivers slightly within her thin gray sweater. Perhaps, I will never know. 

"Did you see what I got for Christmas?" Kristy screams when I reach her driveway. She's finally stopped running. Her face is flushed from the excitement and the cold. She grins wide and breathes heavily, her breaths bursting out in visible puffs. 

"I see," I tell her. 

"I got a car!" she shouts, perhaps to confirm for herself more than for me. 

"You got a car!" I exclaim, laughing. 

"Come here!" Kristy cries, grabbing my hand and pulling me nearer. "Look! Isn't it awesome? In the spring and summer, I can drive with the top off! Isn't that cool? Okay, first day of school, I'm driving!" Kristy giggles, absolutely giddy. She turns toward her mom and Watson. "Where are the keys? I need the keys!" 

Watson removes a key from his pants pocket and holds it out, dangling it by a red metallic key ring. He tosses it to Kristy and she catches it. She shrieks again. 

"You're excited," I observe with another laugh. 

"I know!" Kristy agrees, also laughing. "Okay, test drive! Test drive! Who's going?" 

She doesn't require an answer. David Michael, Karen, Andrew, and Emily Michelle are already sitting in the Jeep with their seatbelts latched. 

"I'll come back for you guys," Kristy tells my sisters and I. 

"No, that's okay. You can take us out later," I say. 

"Yeah, later is fine," Tiffany says. "Great car, Kristy." 

"It's super cool," Maria says, awed, peering in through a window at the black interior. 

"I'll see you later!" Kristy shouts, rushing around to the driver's side. She almost forgets to open the door before attempting to jump inside. 

From the sidewalk, we watch Kristy throw the Jeep into drive and peel out onto the street. The Jeep roars down McLelland and disappears, skidding around the corner, practically on two wheels. Watson and Elizabeth don't look quite so pleased anymore. 

"Maybe...maybe we should have waited until graduation," Elizabeth suggests. 

"She'll be fine," Watson replies. 

"Are you girls having a nice Christmas?" Nannie calls to us. We're a fair distance apart from them. 

Tiffany shrugs, but Maria calls back, "As good as can be expected!" It's a huge effort to not be completely mortified. I love Maria, but she really needs to learn to censor herself, at least a little bit. Of course, I suppose maybe that comment _was_ censored. Surely, Maria could have thought up something much worse. 

"Are you coming over for lunch?" Elizabeth asks, very casually. "It'll just be us. Janet and her family went to visit relatives out of town." 

I'm unsure if that last part was for my benefit or Tiffany's. Both of us, I suspect. While I blush slightly, there's no change in Tiffany's expression. Her face remains impassive. I must wonder if she feels any guilt or remorse or shame for what she did with Sam Thomas. She hasn't said, I haven't asked, and I doubt either of us ever will. 

"All right," Tiffany replies with a shrug. 

"Maybe," I say, hesitantly. 

Elizabeth nods. She doesn't say anything else. She doesn't push. When has she not pushed? She's giving me my space. Or perhaps, she's given up on me altogether. There's a flicker within myself, faint but panicked, that perhaps, Elizabeth has written me off as a lost cause. Not that I would blame her. I've been worse to her than to almost anyone. Kristy and Mrs. Bryar forgave me. But Elizabeth isn't like Mrs. Bryar and in some ways, she isn't like Kristy either. And then, perhaps it doesn't matter. I don't think I'll ever look Elizabeth Brewer in the eye again, let alone manage a conversation with her. 

"We'll see you girls at twelve-thirty," Nannie tells us and turns to go back inside the house. 

"Merry Christmas!" Watson and Charlie call out with a wave. 

Elizabeth sort of smiles at us, then turns to follow the others into the house. Tiffany and Maria return the Christmas wishes. I don't. Christmas doesn't seem very merry. Maybe for other people it is. But not for my sisters and I. 

Our turnovers are now lukewarm, just barely, but we eat them anyway. Tiffany and Maria lie on the floor while I lie on the couch. When I'm halfway through with my turnover, I go into the kitchen and find three clean coffee mugs in the cabinet. I fill each mug with milk and then return to the living room. Tiffany and Maria have turned on the radio and tuned to the all Christmas station. Presently, Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers are singing to us about how they believe in Santa Claus. It's a cheery, upbeat song that does not exactly match the atmosphere. Tiffany and Maria lie on the floor again, chewing on bits of turnover while messing with their gifts, and between bites sing quietly along with the radio. I sit on the couch, plate resting on my knees, sipping my milk and watching them. It's nice, in its own way, but not exactly Christmas. I don't know if I'll ever feel the same about Christmas again. It will always have a dark mark hanging above it. It will always come right after an anniversary that I'll want to forget. 

I wish I could be completely happy again. 

Or not even happy. Satisfied or content would do. 

Right after Maria goes upstairs to shower, Dad finally comes downstairs. He's wearing a suit and tie. He doesn't wish us a merry Christmas. I suspect that somehow between last night and this morning he forgot. 

"Hey!" Dad says, stopping underneath the archway into the living room. "I'm meeting Phil and Cal at the club. I'll be a few hours." 

"Whatever," Tiffany says without looking up from her new book on bulbs. 

"Bye," I say, just as absently. There's no use making any effort. 

"Have a nice morning, girls," Dad says, then crosses into the kitchen. A few seconds later, the door into the garage slams shut. 

"Merry Christmas," Tiffany mumbles. 

"The Greenvale Country Club is open on Christmas?" I wonder aloud. 

"I don't think that's the club he meant," Tiffany informs me, still not looking up from her book. "I think he's going to the Juniper Club in Stamford. You know, that strip club." 

On Christmas? Nothing surprises me too much now, not when it comes to Dad. I can't even work up any disgust. I can't even waste too much thought on why Dad's wearing a suit and tie to a strip club, or how Tiffany knows about Dad and the Juniper Club in the first place. Does any of it matter? No. Not really. I am resigned to that fact. So resigned I am almost numb. 

"Why aren't you guys dressed?" Maria screeches from the archway twenty minutes later. Damp curls frame her freshly scrubbed face. She's dressed in black pants and an emerald green sweater with little gold studs scattered across the chest. "It's twelve o' clock! We can't keep the Thomas-Brewers waiting!" 

"Yeah, yeah," Tiffany answers and rolls onto her side, then rises into a sitting position. She glances up at the clock on the entertainment center. "I have time to shower. I'll be fast." She hops up and leaves the living room. Apparently, she's not nearly as worried about how she looks to the Thomas-Brewers as she is Tyler and his family. 

"You know, Maria..." I say, hesitantly. "I think I'll stay home. Maybe you could bring me something back. And when you and Tiffany come home, maybe we can all go visit Mrs. Bryar. You can finally see her house!" I hope that softens the disappointment of my staying home alone. 

It doesn't. 

Maria's face sort of crumples. "But...but...it's Christmas," she whispers. 

"I know and we've been together all morning. You'll only be gone a couple hours, right? I'm really tired, Maria, and I'd like some quiet time to rest. But we'll have most of the afternoon and all the evening to spend together." 

"But..." Maria says, quietly. "But...that's not the same. I want to spend all of Christmas Day with you and Tiffany. With you and Tiffany and David Michael Thomas and all the Thomas-Brewers. And if we get to see Mrs. Bryar, that's even better. Even if she is Jewish." 

"Oh," I say, just as quietly. "Well..." I don't know what to say. I'm torn. I want to avoid Kristy's family, but I want to be with my own as well. Tiffany and Maria are my family. Really, they're the only family I have. The Thomas-Brewers used to sort of be our extended family, our pretend family, but like so many things, that has crumbled away in the last several months. And now... 

"Please, Shanny?" Maria says, her eyes large and pleading. "I really want to be with you." 

My heart begins to melt. Maria, who has been so angry with me - with everyone - actually wants my company, my nearness. She wants that and doesn't deserve to be denied. 

"Sure," I say. "I'll go to Kristy's." I stand up from the couch and dust a few crumbs off my shirt. 

I expect Maria to smile, but instead, her eyes fill with tears. She crosses the room to me and hugs me. She's only about an inch and a half shorter than me. Sometimes I forget she's not a little girl anymore. "I love you, Shanny," she says. "You know that, right? You'll always remember that, right?" 

"Of course," I say and hug her back. "I love you, too, Maria." 

Maria hugs me a long time. It feels like we're sisters, real sisters, again. 

I don't bother to shower. I showered yesterday evening and figure that's good enough. I put on a little make-up, but still look pale and tired. It will take time. It will take time to feel like myself again, to feel complete and normal. Mrs. Bryar is right. These feelings, this doubt and numbness and confusion, cannot last forever. Someday it will all fade away, fade into the background of myself, and I will move on. I hope it's someday soon. 

We're on the Thomas-Brewers' front porch at three minutes past twelve-thirty. I intend to knock, but Maria opens the door and barges right in. She calls out for David Michael and Kristy and Elizabeth. She calls out for all the Thomas-Brewers, their names running together in a string, hardly separable or coherent. In seconds, David Michael appears and together he and Maria race upstairs to join the other kids in the game room. After they've disappeared up the stairs, Tiffany decides she wants to play air hockey, too. She runs up after them. Kristy appears then. She looks absolutely ridiculous in a white sweatshirt with dancing elves across it. But she looks like Kristy and that's all that matters. 

"Merry Christmas!" she exclaims, grinning, obviously still high from her Christmas gift. 

"Merry Christmas!" I reply, trying to sound much cheerier than I feel. Maybe I'll fake myself out. Maybe it'll become real. "How's the Jeep?" 

"Fantastic! I think I may be in love. Seriously, I'm in love with my car. We'll go for a drive after lunch. I can't wait for you to see how nice and smooth it drives. And I can't wait to show Abby! I wish she was home. She'll die! And I can't wait to show everyone else - Greer and Amanda and Al and Karl and Mary Anne and Lindsey when she's home again. Man, I even want to show Sally White! I hope she jealous." Kristy grins again. 

I laugh. "Oh, before I forget, this is for you," I tell her, holding out a gift wrapped in holly-print paper. "It's not a new car, but I hope you like it." I am very thankful that I bought Kristy's gift before I started to hate her. 

Kristy shakes the gift. "Yeah, it's all right that it's not a new car. I already have one and it's perfect. Come on, I have a gift for you, too." 

I follow Kristy into the living room, which is filled with unwrapped gifts that are scattered across the floor. There's a number of unwrapped gifts still under the tree and Kristy searches through them until she finds mine. It's a medium-sized square box wrapped in candy cane-print paper. We sit side by side on the couch and unwrap our gifts together. 

"I love it!" Kristy exclaims, pulling the multicolored-striped sweater from the box. I knew she'd like that ugly thing. "The colors are great. Thank you, Shannon." 

"And...thank you..." I reply, lifting my gift from the box. It's a hot pink nightshirt covered in glitter and bowling pins with the words _Rock And Bowl!_ written across the bottom in black. 

"I remembered how much you admired the sweatshirt I bought Nannie," Kristy explains, seriously. Then she laughs. "So, do you still think Stacey McGill's mother should be fired?" 

"No. I think she should be shot." 

Kristy laughs again. "Look at the bottom of the box. There's something else," she says and seeing my skeptical expression adds, "It's your real gift. It's from my whole family." 

At the bottom of the box I find an envelope. Inside is a booklet of gift certificates to Stoneybrook Cinema. Impersonal and safe. But still more than I deserve. "Thanks, Kristy," I tell her. "But I'm never wearing this nightshirt." 

"Oh, you jest," she replies and laughs once more. 

We eat fifteen minutes later. The kids sit at the table in the kitchen, but Kristy, Tiffany, and I sit at the dining room table with the adults. I make sure to sit at the opposite end from Elizabeth. I avoid eye contact with her. She speaks to me a couple times, casually, nonchalantly, about things of unimportance. She pretends I'm not purposely avoiding her. I know she knows. After lunch, Maria goes around showing everyone the locket David Michael gave her for Christmas. It's silver and has a _M_ engraved in fancy script on the front. I worry that such a gift may be a bit much for an eleven-year-old boy to give to his twelve-year-old girlfriend. Of course, David Michael's proudly wearing the cologne Maria gave him. Wearing it after much teasing from Charlie and Kristy, naturally. I spend most of the next two hours with Kristy going through her Christmas gifts and then, lying around the living room, chatting. Tiffany and Charlie join us a couple times, for a while, then pop out again. Nannie and Watson do the same. Elizabeth mostly stays away. 

It makes me feel very guilty. 

When my sisters and I finally leave and are walking across the street in the freezing wind, I realize that no one ever mentioned Sam. It's strange. It's suddenly like Sam never existed at all. I can't say I'm sorry. I will only be sorry if Sam ever comes back again. Just thinking it makes me reach out and hook my arm through Tiffany's. She smiles at me. She doesn't know what I'm thinking. I'm glad. 

As soon as we get home, Maria's on the phone with Mrs. Bryar. Maria doesn't waste any time. She claims it's because it's Christmas. She's on and off the phone before I even unbutton my coat. It's a good thing since Maria informs me that Mrs. Bryar just got home and said we can come straight over if we want. Of course, Maria wants. So, that's where the three of us head. I think to myself while we drive that it's kind of nice. It's kind of nice that we have places to go on Christmas even if Dad ran off to a strip club and Mom never materialized from her bedroom before we left for Kristy's and was already gone when we got back. 

"Does Mrs. Bryar have cats?" Tiffany whispers to me, as we walk up to the front door. "I've always pictured her with lots of cats." 

"I never saw a cat," I reply. 

"Really?" Tiffany says, surprised. 

Mrs. Bryar opens the door before I can respond. Unlike yesterday, she's dressed and wearing make-up. She looks much more like I'm used to seeing her. Of course, in a way, I'll never see her the same again. She's someone different now, a different someone I never bothered to really know. 

"Hello, girls," Mrs. Bryar greets us, holding open the front door. "How has your Christmas been so far?" 

That one question earns her a fifteen minute non-stop answer from Maria. Thankfully, Maria doesn't know about Dad and the strip club. When Maria finally finishes rambling, Mrs. Bryar goes into the kitchen to make hot chocolate. Immediately, Maria sets to work rifling through Mrs. Bryar's bookcase. She doesn't find anything of much interest. Although we do learn that Mrs. Bryar enjoys mystery novels and crotchet. 

Tiffany picks up a magazine from the coffee table. She studies the front a moment, then turns it around to me. It's some woman's magazine I've never heard of. Tiffany raises an eyebrow. "Her name is _Tracey_?" she hisses. 

Suddenly, I don't feel quite so bad. At least I knew Mrs. Bryar's name, even if I couldn't spell it. 

"What did you think her name was?" Maria demands, irritably. 

"I don't know. Some old person name. Like Margaret or Evelyn." 

"You know, I hope she can't hear you," Maria comments, pulling another book off the shelf. 

"And I hope she doesn't catch you snooping through her stuff," Tiffany shoots back. 

"It's all sitting out in the open!" Maria protests. 

I lean back in the armchair and smile. It's like old times. 

"Are you girls fighting?" Mrs. Bryar asks, returning to the living room with a tray. She hands us each a mug of hot chocolate. After the half of an apple turnover I ate this morning and the light lunch I managed to eat at Kristy's, I'm uncertain if I can handle even hot chocolate. But I accept the mug anyway and know I must drink at least some. Not simply out of good manners, but also because I know Mrs. Bryar will be watching. 

"Mrs. Bryar?" Maria says, setting her mug on the coffee table. "May I use your bathroom?" 

"Of course. It's right through the bedroom. Right behind you." 

"Can you show me?" 

"Of course." 

Tiffany and I sit in silence as Mrs. Bryar leads Maria into her bedroom. The door shuts behind them. They don't return for almost twenty minutes. It's bizarre. 

"What were you and Mrs. Bryar doing in her bedroom?" I ask Maria when we're driving home an hour later. 

"Nothing." 

"For twenty minutes?" 

"Yes." 

I drop the subject. It's Christmas and not even a horrible one. I would like to preserve the peace for at least the rest of the day. We drive the remainder of the way home listening to the Christmas station. Tiffany hums and Maria sings. I don't feel like either, but occasionally, I crack a small smile. When we get home, Mom and Dad's cars sit in the garage. I glance at my watch. Not even five o' clock. I don't know whether to be impressed, concerned, or indifferent. 

I settle on indifferent. 

"Hello," I greet Mom and Dad when we walk into the kitchen. 

Mom's at the counter messing with the coffee maker. She looks as immaculate as always dressed in a short crimson red skirt and a white blouse with a deep neckline. Every blonde hair on her head it perfectly in place. It looks like she had it re-colored recently. I wonder if she's noticed the kitchen is an official disaster area. Probably not. Just like Dad's apparently not realized he's eating soup out of Astrid's extra dog dish. 

"Merry Christmas," I say, dully. 

"Merry Christmas," Mom echoes back to me without turning around. 

"It _is_ Christmas, isn't it!" Dad chuckles. He puts down the dog dish and whips out his wallet. "Merry Christmas," he says and hands us each a crisp hundred dollar bill. 

"Are you all out of singles?" Tiffany asks, innocently. 

I giggle. 

Dad looks confused. 

"Thanks, Dad," Maria says, filling the silence. She opens her purse and takes out her own wallet. She slides the hundred inside. When Dad turns his back, I hand Maria my hundred dollar bill. I don't need the money. I don't want it either. 

"I've had a wonderful Christmas," Maria announces. 

"That's great," Mom says. 

"Do you want to hear about it?" Maria asks. 

"That's great," Mom says again. 

Maria scowls. But only for a moment. Her expression changes, melting quickly into something new, something I can't quite read. "Well," she says, loudly. "I'm grateful I got to spend the whole day with my sisters and I saw all the important people in my life." 

"That's great," Mom says. 

"Hey...why are there painted bones on this bowl?" Dad asks no one in particular. 

There's an odd silence that only my sisters and I detect. Our parents might as well be on another planet. Even when they're here, they're not really here. And no matter where they are, they don't really care. 

"I'm grateful, too," TIffany finally says. 

"Me too," I tell Maria. 

Maria nods. She looks at Mom and then at Dad, then leaves the kitchen. Tiffany and I follow. We put away our coats and scarves, then settle back in the living room. We find some made-for-television Christmas movie on the t.v. and begin watching it. Our parents clatter around in the kitchen, not speaking and not existing where we exist, or even where the other exists. After awhile, Dad wanders into his study and takes out some paperwork. I hear him in there, turning pages in a book, gliding his pencil over a legal pad. Mom stays in the kitchen. I hear her briefcase pop open, followed by the shuffling of papers. Our parents are still hard at work on Christmas Day two hours later when the movie ends. Another starts and my sisters and I watch it through to the end, too. It's silly and cliched, but we watch all the same. I feel numb and drained, disappointed at the end to our day. Tiffany lays on the floor, expressionless as usual. Is she disappointed, too? She must be. And Maria...I can't read her either. 

"That was dumb," TIffany grumbles when the credits roll after the movie. "Santa Claus vacationing in the Bahamas? Playing matchmaker? What a waste of two hours!" She sits up and struggles to her feet. She shakes her right foot like it's fallen asleep. "I'm going to call Tyler," she announces and sort of limps out of the living room. 

I glance at the clock. It's almost nine-thirty. I yawn. I am exhausted. I could sleep right now. Maybe I will. 

"Someone's here!" Tiffany calls out from the foyer. 

"What?" I call back. 

"Someone's here!" 

Mom comes out of the kitchen. "Why is Tiffany yelling?" she demands. 

"She says someone's here," I answer, ignoring her tone. Mom strides out of the living room with me on her heels. Maria follows beside me, taking my hand. She squeezes it. Dad comes out of his study as the three of us cross the foyer into the formal sitting room where Tiffany's peering out through the blinds. A pair of headlights shine through. 

"Are you going back to Hawaii?" Tiffany asks Mom when we enter the room. 

"No. Why?" 

"There's a taxi outside." 

The five of us peer through the blinds. In the dark night, the dim light of the street lamps barely breaking through the blackness, all I make out is a shadowy taxi cab. There are hardly ever taxi cabs in Stoneybrook. 

"Who is that?" Mom demands. "Maria, hit the outside lights." 

Obediently, Maria goes out into the foyer and flicks on the front lights. They flood the yard and driving, spilling out bright and far, blanketing the taxi with their brilliance. The taxi is completely visible now. The back door opens and a woman almost falls out. She straightens and shuts the door, readjusting the strap of her carry-on bag over her shoulder. She's average height, average weight, totally average all around. Mid-forties, maybe older with light brown hair falling just past her shoulders. I don't know her. 

"Ted!" Mom screeches. "What is your sister doing here?" 


	65. Chapter 65

"_That's_ Aunt Mirabelle?" Tiffany exclaims. 

"God, yes," Mom groans. 

Aunt Mirabelle draws closer up the walk at a slow pace, stepping cautiously through the slush. The sidewalk has turned icy. She keeps her head down, watching her step, so I can't see her clearly. I don't think she's as I remembered, but really, I don't remember her at all. As she approaches the front steps, the deadbolt turns and Maria opens the front door. 

"Good God! Don't let her in!" Mom shrieks and runs out into the foyer. 

Dad, Tiffany, and I follow at her heels. When we reach the foyer, Mom's standing in the doorway, blocking the entrance with Maria peering out around the door frame. Mom has her hands firmly planted on her hips and even from the back, she looks frightfully intimidating. She blocks our view of Aunt Mirabelle, who is a fair bit shorter than Mom. 

"May I come in?" Aunt Mirabelle's voice asks. 

"No!" Mom shouts. 

Aunt Mirabelle peeks around Mom's shoulder, her eyes and bangs all that's visible. "Ted? May I come in?" she asks Dad. 

Dad hesitates. He glances at his sister, then at Mom, then at my sisters and I. He doesn't know the correct response. He doesn't know whose wrath may be worse. 

"Say no, Ted!" Mom barks without turning around. 

"Ted?" 

"Um...I guess you can come in," Dad finally answers. 

"Thank you," Aunt Mirabelle says and shoves Mom out of the way. She literally shoves Mom, pushes her backward out of the doorway, catching Mom slightly off-balance. 

Mom appears absolutely shocked. "Who the hell do you think you are, Mirabelle?" she demands. "Turn around and go right back out that door!" 

Aunt Mirabelle ignores her. She drops her carry-on bag on the foyer tile. It lands with a thud, the only sound in the room. Tiffany, Maria, and I have backed away from the door, nearer to the living room archway. Aunt Mirabelle smiles at us. She has a relaxed smile, a friendly smile. She unzips her parka and tosses it down on top of her carry-on. She isn't anything like I imagined. I imaged someone like Mom - cool and sophisticated and remote. Aunt Mirabelle looks...well, she looks _ordinary_. She's a couple inches taller than me with light brown, slightly messy hair falling past her shoulders. She's not wearing any make-up - maybe some mascara, maybe some lipstick that's mostly worn off. Her face is lined and sort of tired. She looks the age she's supposed to look. She's even dressed ordinary - tan slacks, brown boots, a lilac-colored v-neck polo. 

"Good God, Mirabelle," Mom says after shutting the front door and coming to stand beside Dad. We face Aunt Mirabelle together, the five Kilbournes versus the lone aunt, a false united front. A facade like all the others. "What the hell happened to you? You've really let yourself go. You look..._old_." 

Aunt Mirabelle stares at Mom, blankly. "Of course I got old, Kathalynn," she replies. "I haven't seen you in ten years. Did you expect me to look the same?" Aunt Mirabelle sweeps Mom up and down with her eyes. "You don't look the same either. What...what happened to your chest?" 

"Dr. Irving," Maria answers. 

Mom's cheeks redden ever so slightly, the flush barely noticeable. It's the only indication of any embarrassment or discomfort. Mom squares her shoulders and holds herself straight, perfectly erect, a foreboding presence. Or so she hopes. "You also got fat," she says, nastily. "You got old and fat." 

"I'm not fat," Aunt Mirabelle says. She doesn't sound bothered at all by Mom's rudeness. "This is how most people our age look. I'm completely average, Kathalynn." 

Mom smiles, smugly. "And so proud of it," she sneers. 

Aunt Mirabelle looks at Mom a moment longer, then turns back to my sisters and I. She's finished with Mom. She's having no more of it. She smiles at us again. "You must be the girls," she says. "My gosh, you're all so grown up. Do you remember me at all?" 

Tiffany shakes her head. I shrug. Maria says nothing, having suddenly turned shy. After all her phone calls, after telling Aunt Mirabelle - a perfect stranger - Lord knows what about our family, Maria can do no more than stare at her. Is Aunt Mirabelle not what she expected? Is Maria disappointed? Maria slips her hand in mine. I squeeze it, lightly, reassuringly. Aunt Mirabelle continues to smile. Her smile remains as before, relaxed and friendly, but now there's something more, something a bit sad twitching at the corners. It passes across her eyes, too. Her eyes are rather strange, large and wide so she appears surprised, caught off-guard. They're odd and startling. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Mom demands again. 

Aunt Mirabelle's smile slowly lowers. She tears her surprised eyes from my sisters and I to refocus on our parents. "I'm concerned," she tells Mom. "I couldn't get anyone on the telephone. I decided I needed to come out and speak to you in person. This evening was the soonest flight I could get. I cut Christmas short with my own family to be here," Aunt Mirabelle explains, as if that means anything to my parents. "I'm very concerned about your family, Ted, Kathalynn." 

"Stop calling me that," Mom snaps. "You do it to annoy me. You always have." 

"We're getting off point," Aunt Mirabelle replies, smoothly. "I am concerned about things I've been told, things that have gone on in this house and with your family. I'd like to discuss my concerns with you. In private, I think. Just the three of us." 

"I don't think so, Mirabelle," Mom spits out, icily. 

"What concerns?" Dad asks. He appears genuinely confused. What else is new? 

"I have quite a few," Aunt Mirabelle says. She's speaking only to Dad now. "Ted, let's go into the living room. We can talk in there." Aunt Mirabelle steps forward, around Dad and takes his arm as she passes. She tugs him along with her. 

"Ted!" Mom bellows after them. "Ted! Don't listen to her! You always let her do this! Ted!" Mom stomps after them. 

Tiffany, Maria, and I follow. We are silent. We are nearly breathless. Tiffany seems confused, like Dad. Maria...I don't know what Maria is thinking or feeling. She's so quiet and blank that I cannot guess. She set this in motion, this is all her doing, and now she hangs back. She removes herself and watches mutely. 

Mom, Dad, and Aunt Mirabelle don't sit down. Instead, they stand in the living room, around the center, awkwardly. Mom places her hands on her hips again, attempting to take up more space in the room. She is a presence. She is a presence to be reckoned with. Dad and Aunt Mirabelle face each other, a great distance between them, their arms hanging at their sides. They don't look like brother and sister. I see no resemblance, I see no flicker of connection. Will this be my sisters and I someday? Will we stand together in a room and no one will guess we've ever met before? Will we not speak for years, not to one another, not about one another, like none of us exist, like we are nothing to the others? 

I wonder, having never really wondered before, if this is how it's always been for Dad and Aunt Mirabelle. Have they always stood without connection, or have they gradually worn away, drifting apart and forgetting the other? There is a wedge between them and it's grown throughout the years. Now it's so deep and wide, I doubt either can see the other on the opposite side. I don't want this for myself. I don't want this for Tiffany and Maria. 

"What is it then?" Mom asks, testily. "You might as well get it over with and get out of here." 

"In front of the girls?" 

"Yes," Mom says, tone growing testier. 

Aunt Mirabelle glances over at where we stand beneath the archway. She hesitates. Whatever she planned to say, she reconsiders. She reconsiders her words or her phrasing or perhaps, everything intended in her visit. What does she know? What all has Maria said to her? She may know about Wes. She may know about Sam Thomas. There are so many things - private, personal things - to know about us. All our secrets, all our humiliations, all our mistakes. 

Maria releases my hand. She slips quietly into the living room and sidles up to Aunt Mirabelle. "I'm Maria," she says. She's regained her courage. Whatever shyness or misgivings she had have fallen away. 

Aunt Mirabelle smiles down at her. "I know," she says. 

Mom begins tapping her right foot. 

Aunt Mirabelle looks up again. Her smile turns vague, distant. It's not the friendly one she had for my sisters and I. "Ted and Kathalynn...Kathy..." she begins. "I have concerns - deep, serious concerns - about your family. I'm very worried. I have spoken to several people and - " 

"It was that Elizabeth Brewer, wasn't it?" Mom cuts in. 

"Yes. I have spoken to Elizabeth Brewer," Aunt Mirabelle confirms. 

Tiffany and I raise our eyebrows at each other. Aunt Mirabelle's spoken to Elizabeth? 

Mom clenches her fists and grits her teeth. "That woman is nothing but a busybody and a gold-digger! She weaseled her way into this neighborhood and she is systematically attempting to dismantle and discredit the upstanding families of this community. She is - " 

"We're off-point again," Aunt Mirabelle interrupts. She does it very casually. It flows like regular conversation. "I've spoken to Elizabeth Brewer, yes. She seems very nice and as concerned, if not more so, about your family than I am. I have spoken to several other people and all share similar concerns. I don't know exactly what's gone on within this house, but I have some idea. I think you are two of the most selfish, neglectful parents I have ever heard of. Ted, I am glad Mom and Dad aren't alive to witness what you've done to your own family. They would be ashamed and horrified." 

Mom's jaw drops. "How dare you!" she screeches. "You waltz in here after ten years and start barking orders and passing judgments? Who the hell do you think you are, Mirabelle?" 

"I think I'm the only adult with brains left in this family," Aunt Mirabelle replies, her voice rising slightly. She turns to face Dad straight on. "_Hookers_?" she demands. "What's wrong with you, Ted?" 

Dad actually turns red. "They aren't hookers," he says, irritably. "They're escorts." 

"What's the difference?" Aunt Mirabelle demands. "The price?" 

"They look like Kathleen Turner," I explain. The words spring out. They spring out all on their own. 

If possible, Aunt Mirabelle's eyes grow even wider. "Ted!" she shouts. "That's disgusting!" 

Mom glares at Dad. "I told you no more prostitutes," she says, furiously. "Can't you get it for free? You have to pay for it?" 

"Do you hear yourselves?" Aunt Mirabelle asks, aghast. "Do you hear what you're saying in front of your daughters?" 

Mom waves at Tiffany and I, dismissively. "They know," she says. "They're big girls. They can handle the knowledge that their father's a pervert with a Kathleen Turner fetish." 

"They're teenagers!" Aunt Mirabelle protests. She looks down at Maria, then to Tiffany and I to Mom, and finally settles her wide-eyed stare on Dad. "They're teenagers!" she cries again. "They shouldn't be hearing about your extramarital affairs, paid for or otherwise. Yours, Ted, or _yours_, Kathalynn." Aunt Mirabelle gives Mom a meaningful look. "And they shouldn't have pubic lice and they shouldn't be performing sex acts on boys in their bedrooms. They shouldn't be having sex at all. Not with boys their age, not with married men, and not with teachers." My face grows warm. I bite my lip. Maria refuses to meet my gaze. Maria told Aunt Mirabelle all those things! It had to have been her. She told Aunt Mirabelle and then Aunt Mirabelle called Elizabeth for confirmation. I want to cry. They've all been talking about me, talking about what a whore I am. I'm a whore and Tiffany's a whore. And they all know. 

"Well, well, well," Mom says, sassily. "You're just _so_ smart, aren't you, Mirabelle? As usual, you think you know best. You think you have all the answers. You just know everything about everything, don't you? I suppose you know all about Shannon's abortion, too." 

Tiffany gasps. 

My stomach drops. It drops straight to my feet. It doesn't come back up. It stays there, sinking down into my toes. 

"Her _what_?" Dad shrieks. 

Aunt Mirabelle stares at me. Her eyes can't possibly grow any wider. Her face may explode if they do. 

I shift my eyes to Maria. She stares at me. She stares at me with her mouth open slightly, eyes big, lip quivering. 

"You had an abortion?" she whispers. The quiver quickens. "You had an abortion?" she shouts. 

Maria bursts into tears. 

Aunt Mirabelle slips her arm around Maria's shoulders. She pats her shoulder. Maria's comforted by a total stranger. She's comforted by a total stranger while her family looks on. 

I turn on Mom. "Why did you have to say that?" I scream. 

Mom gives no reaction. "How was I supposed to know she didn't know?" Mom asks. 

"If you were ever home, you would know," Tiffany snaps. "If you hadn't gone to Hawaii, you would have known. You should have been here taking care of Shannon. You should have taken her to her appointment. Instead, you went to Hawaii and had a party and screwed your brains out while we were stuck here with a mess!" 

Mom tilts her head upward. She flicks her eyes down at us. Her expression is stone. "Shannon shouldn't have been pregnant when I was leaving for Hawaii," she says, coldly. "It's not my fault she was too stupid to not make the boy wear a condom. Why should I be punished for her stupidity?" 

Aunt Mirabelle stares at Mom, hand to her chest, mouth gaping, appearing absolutely horrified. "Because you're her mother!" she exclaims. "You went to Hawaii while she was having an abortion? What's wrong with you, Kathy?" Aunt Mirabelle turns to me. "She should have been with you," Aunt Mirabelle tells me. "Are you okay?" 

I nod, numbly, biting my lip. 

"Of course she's fine," Mom says, agitatedly. "It's a common procedure. All the girls have them these days. In and out and it's over. And I wouldn't get so high and mighty about it, Mirabelle. It's not like Shannon's some sort of victim here. She spread her legs for some idiot boy and faced the consequences. Next time, she'll be sure he slips something on before he slips it inside her. She learned her lesson." 

"This is appalling," Aunt Mirabelle announces. "How can you talk about your daughter that way? I know we've had our problems, Kathalynn, and we've never gotten along, but you were never like this before. What happened to you?" 

"Your idiot brother and his ungrateful children," Mom replies. "And I wouldn't be so quick to jump to Shannon's side. She doesn't even know who knocked her up." 

"I do, too!" I protest, tearfully. I don't know when I started crying. I don't know when Tiffany put her arm around my waist. "He was my boyfriend!" 

"The man in your bedroom!" Dad exclaims. He doesn't sound upset. He sounds proud to have remembered. "The teacher!" 

Mom's mouth becomes a thin line. "A teacher knocked you up?" she asks in a measured voice. 

I nod. 

"You let some middle-aged, pot-bellied teacher get between your legs?" Mom asks in the same measured voice. It's cold, devoid of feeling. "You really are stupid. Do you have any idea what a scandal like that would do to my reputation?" 

"Kathalynn!" Aunt Mirabelle cries. "Ted! Don't you have anything to say about this?" 

Dad looks at Mom, then at me. He returns his attention to Aunt Mirabelle. "Well...I guess there's no harm done," he says. "She took care of the problem and nothing can be changed now. Kathy's right. Shannon's learned her lesson. She'll be more careful next time. I think it's good that Shannon's not afraid to explore and experiment. She's young and should enjoy herself. She shouldn't be an uptight prude." Dad chuckles. My father actually chuckles. "Mirabelle, you remember Fay McCracken? That frigid bitch. I don't want Shannon to be like her. Mean and nasty and colder than a block of ice. And combative. You want Shannon to be like her? Now, Fay's sister - " 

"Why are you talking about the McCracken sisters?" Aunt Mirabelle interrupts. There's a strange look on her face. "We're discussing your daughter. Your daughter who slept with a teacher and got pregnant and had an abortion. Who cares about Fay McCracken? I doubt she's given you any thought since she beat you up after the prom. You're fifty-one years old, Ted! Grow up! You don't want Shannon to be like Fay, do you want her to be like Margolo? Do you want her to steal the neighbor's gun and splattered her brains all over your bedroom wall? Is that what you want, Ted?" 

Dad shifts uncomfortably. "Well, no...of course not." 

"Then shut up about the McCrackens," Aunt Mirabelle replies. She looks down at Maria, who's wiping her eyes and sniffling. "Are you going to be okay?" she asks. 

Maria shakes her head. Then she nods. She doesn't know. I don't blame her. 

Aunt Mirabelle rubs Maria's arm. She says something softly that I don't catch. Then Aunt Mirabelle returns her attention to Mom and Dad. "This is simply appalling. I don't think we've even scratched the surface of what's been going on here. These are serious problems. Your daughters have serious problems and the two of you don't even care. You don't even notice. I think the girls should go back to Evanston with me." 

"You are not taking my children!" Mom protests. 

"Why not? You clearly aren't interested in them. And I'm not suggesting I take them to keep. It's just a visit. They're on Christmas break, aren't they? I think your daughters are in need of some time away from this house." 

"I would rather die than give you my children," Mom says, nastily. 

I wipe away the remainder of my tears, staring at Mom. There is no hope left in me. There is no hope left in me that Mom wants me and is fighting for me. I know the truth. She just doesn't want Aunt Mirabelle to have me. She wants me and my sisters out of spite. 

"Maybe...maybe we should let them go," Dad says, hesitantly. 

What? 

Has Dad actually been paying attention? 

"Are you insane?" Mom demands. "Did one of your prostitutes give you syphilis and it's gone to your brain and driven you into dementia?" 

"No...it's just that..." Dad says with further hesitation. "If they go with Mira, we won't have to worry about them at all. We can do whatever we want. Mira actually wants them. They can be her problem for a couple weeks." 

I almost laugh. Like it matters whether we're here or in Evanston, Illinois. Mom and Dad do whatever they want anyway. We haven't been their problem for years. Maybe their burden, maybe their inconvenience, but problem? No. But then...I cock my head slightly to the side, studying my father. Am I giving him too little credit? Does he know exactly what he's doing, speaking to Mom in terms she can agree on? And then...maybe I'm giving him far too much credit. 

"Fine," Mom says. "You two make the decision. Do as you please. I don't care." 

_I don't care._

And she doesn't. 

Aunt Mirabelle nods. "Thank you, Kathy," she says and sounds completely sincere. "Would you girls like to come back to Evanston for a visit? We can try to get a flight out tomorrow. Your cousins - my girls - are excited about seeing you again. They're about your ages, Shannon and Tiffany. And you can meet Greg and of course, Max, who is Maria's age." 

"Who's Greg?" Dad asks. 

"My husband." 

Dad wrinkles his brow. "What happened to Chuck?" 

Aunt Mirabelle blinks a couple times. Her face remains blank. "Chuck?" she says. "Chuck and I have been divorced for eight years, Ted. Greg is my second husband. We've been married for almost five years. Didn't you read the wedding announcement I sent?" 

Dad chuckles, nervously. "I guess not!" 

"Hm," Aunt Mirabelle says and looks at Dad a moment longer, then moves her eyes from him. She returns her attention to Tiffany and I. "So, would you like to come?" she asks again. 

"I'll go," Maria announces, loudly. As if anyone had any doubt. "I'll go right now." 

"Well, we won't leave until tomorrow." 

"Where are you staying tonight?" Mom asks. "Because you aren't staying here!" 

"I'm staying at the Strathmoore Inn downtown." 

"Can I come with you?" Maria asks, eagerly. "I love hotels!" 

My mouth drops open. Maria wants to leave right away? As soon as possible? After everything she said to me today, she wants to run off at the first opportunity? 

"If it's all right with - " Aunt Mirabelle begins. 

"Take her," Mom cuts in. 

"I'll get my stuff!" Maria cries and races from the room. She leaves us so easily. 

I turn and chase after her. As I cross through the foyer toward the stairs, I hear Tiffany saying, "I don't know..." 

I freeze in Maria's open doorway. She's dragging her suitcase out from underneath the bed. She struggles to lift it onto the bed. She unzips the suitcase and throws open the lid. 

The suitcase is full. 

"You knew!" I exclaim, coming into the room. "You knew she was coming!" 

"Of course I knew," Maria replies, pushing down some of her clothes, making more room in the suitcase. "She told me last week. She had to wait for her vacation to start. Tonight was the soonest she could get here." Maria folds the sweater TIffany gave her for Christmas and stuffs it in the suitcase. 

Something dawns on me, hits me in an instant. I should have known. I shouldn't have dismissed it. I should have realize something wasn't right. 

"Mrs. Bryar knew, too, didn't she?" I demand. "That's why you were in her bedroom! This is what you were talking about!" 

"I was saying goodbye," Maria explains, opening her closet. She removes her pea coat and tosses it on the bed. "Thank you for taking me over there. I thought I'd have to say goodbye over the phone. Don't be angry with Mrs. Bryar. I made her promise not to tell you." 

"Has she been talking to Aunt Mirabelle, too? Just like Elizabeth?" I ask. My voice breaks. What has Mrs. Bryar told Aunt Mirabelle about me? She obviously didn't tell her about the abortion. Aunt Mirabelle appeared genuinely shocked at that. But what else has Mrs. Bryar said? 

"Yes," Maria confirms. She's trying to shove her new cosmetics case into the suitcase, but it won't fit. There's too much in the suitcase already. It's packed full, like Maria plans to leave forever. "I told Aunt Mira to call her. I told Aunt Mira to call Elizabeth and Watson, too, and Mr. and Mrs. Papadakis and Lily's stepmom. I gave Aunt Mira all their numbers." 

"Why would you do that?" 

"You know why," Maria answers. "Everyone agrees this is for the best. Elizabeth thinks so and so does Mrs. Bryar. They only want to help, Shanny. Mrs. Bryar says she had a very sad childhood, too, and no one ever helped her. Don't be mad at them, Shanny." 

"I...I'm not. But Maria...you know this is only a visit, right? This isn't forever. Aunt Mirabelle can't keep you." 

"I don't intend to come back," Maria replies and shuts her suitcase. She zips it. "In a week, Mom and Dad won't remember that I exist." 

My eyes fill with tears. "Maria..." I squeak, high and pleading, "why do you want to leave me?" 

Maria turns around. "Because I don't want to turn out like you," she answers. 

The tears break through and trickle down my cheeks, dripping off my chin onto my shirt. 

"I'm sorry, Shanny. I meant what I said earlier. I love you. I really do. But I have to get out of this house. I have to get out while I can. This house ruins everyone who lives here. I love you and you've tried, but I want a real mother. I want real parents, who can take care of me. You and Tiffany would be leaving me behind soon anyway. I'm just leaving you first." 

I watch her and she watches me. I close my eyes, tears still leaking out. I bite my lip and nod. I know. I know. 

"I'll get your toothbrush," I say. 

"I already packed a new one." 

I nod again. I wipe away my tears and cross to Maria, closing the distance between us. I wrap her into a hug, hold her tight and long. Then I let her go. 

I let her go. 

I leave for my bedroom while Maria packs her backpack, filling it with books and magazines and all her favorite things. It may not be forever. Maria may not get what she wants. And then...maybe she will. Maybe she won't come back. I sit down on my bed and hold my head in my hands. I tried. I tried and I failed. I hear footsteps on the stairs, then moving down the hall, and then Aunt Mirabelle's voice drifts out from Maria's bedroom. I can't hear what she's saying. I can't hear what Maria answers back. 

Tiffany comes into my bedroom. She positions herself in front of me. "I think we should go," she tells me. 

I look up. "What?" 

"I think we should go," Tiffany repeats. 

"We don't even know her!" 

"Can she possibly be worse than what we have here?" Tiffany asks. "I mean, did you look at her, Shannon? She looks _normal_. She looks like someone you'd see shopping in the frozen food section at the A&P. I bet they're all normal. I bet they go out for pizza every Tuesday night and watch videos together and argue about whose turn it is to do the laundry. They probably own a station wagon!" 

"What does it matter? I thought you were going to be emancipated?" 

"I am," Tiffany says. "As soon as I turn sixteen. I need somewhere to go though. Maybe they'll be nice." 

Tiffany's won over that easily? She's actually considering leaving, too. Leaving for good. 

Aunt Mirabelle comes to stand in the doorway. Even though the door is wide open, she knocks. "May I come in?" she asks. 

I nod. 

Tiffany turns to her. "I don't have to decide tonight, right?" she asks. "I can decide in the morning, can't I? And it's only for a visit?" 

"Yes." 

Tiffany nods. "Okay, good," she says. "I'm going to help Maria." She walks out of the room. 

Aunt Mirabelle and I are alone. She steps into my bedroom and grabs the desk chair and drags it over to the bed. She sits down in front of me. She sighs and smiles. It's the vague smile. "So..." she says and sighs again. "You're not seven anymore." 

I shake my head. 

"You all look so different. Different than I remember, of course, and different than how I imagined. Your house looks so different, too. And your parents...Everything's changed. Ten years is a long time." 

"It is," I agree and fold my hands in my lap. I don't sit up straight. "Has Dad always been a jerk?" I ask. I can't remember. I didn't think so, but what do I know? 

"Oh...well...yes," Aunt Mirabelle says. "He used to be more of an endearing jerk though." 

I suspected as much. 

"I'm not going back to Illinois with you," I tell her. I might as well get it out. I know I can't leave, even if my sisters do. Too much has happened, too much has changed. My parents may not care, but other people do. I want to be here. I want to rebuild my life here. There's still so many things I must mend. 

"I understand," Aunt Mirabelle says. 

"We haven't always been like this. I don't know what you've been told. Everything, I suppose. We haven't always been terrible though." 

"I know," Aunt Mirabelle says and takes my hands in hers. "I know. And you aren't terrible. I've heard some...disturbing things, but I've heard many wonderful things, too. Not only from Maria, but from everyone I've spoken to. The Brewers and the Papadakises and Tracey Bryar. Everyone has very complimentary things to say about you and your sisters. They're all worried and they all care about you very much. None of them think you're terrible." 

I bite my lip and stare down at our hands. 

"So...you had an abortion," Aunt Mirabelle says, slowly. "I didn't know that." 

"Hardly anyone does. I don't want to talk about it." 

"Okay." Aunt Mirabelle releases my hands and sits back in the chair. "Maybe you'll change your mind in a few days. About coming to Evanston, that is. Or...about anything else." 

I shrug. "Maybe," I say, but I don't think so. "You'll take good care of Maria?" 

"Yes." 

"She deserves a better chance." 

"Everyone does." 

Sometimes I think I've run out of chances. 

But maybe not. 

"I'll think about it, Aunt Mirabelle." 

Aunt Mirabelle smiles. It's the relaxed, friendly smile she had for me earlier. "You may call me Mira or Aunt Mira. I think your family's the only ones who still call me Mirabelle. It's such a dumb name." She laughs. "I guess it's like how I'm the only one who still calls your mother Kathalynn. She's wrong. I don't do it to annoy her. I think it's a pretty name." Aunt Mirabelle smiles again and reaches into her back pocket. She takes out a white business card. "Here. I brought this for you. It has my work number on it and I've written my home number on the back. I'm on vacation now, so call me at home. Anytime." 

I take the card and study it. Aunt Mira works at Northwestern University. I had no idea. _Mira Wickerman_, the card reads. I didn't know her last name either. 

"I'm ready," Maria announces from the doorway. She's wearing her backpack and struggling to hold up her suitcase. 

Aunt Mira and I stand. Aunt Mira strides over to Maria and takes the suitcase. She can barely lift it either. I walk more hesitantly. Maria is leaving. She's really leaving. She might not come back. 

"Ted!" Aunt Mira calls, dragging the suitcase down the hallway. "Ted! Come up here!" 

Dad bounds up the stairs. Aunt Mira swings the suitcase at him. She hits him square in the stomach with it. 

"You can drive us to the Strathmoore," she informs him. "Put that in the car." 

Dad doesn't say anything. He simply obeys. 

Maria insists on saying a final goodbye to Astrid, who's asleep in the bathroom of all places. Maria gets teary-eyed hugging her. Afterward, the four of us - Tiffany, Maria, Aunt Mira, and I - go downstairs together. Mom's nowhere in sight. She doesn't come to say goodbye. She doesn't even bother to pretend. When did she stop even pretending? It's one of those gradual things that move at such a cautious pace that no one even realizes what's happening. Then it's too late. Like me and my slipping, my falling down and hitting bottom. Dad's waiting in the driveway with the car running. Tiffany and I walk Maria and Aunt Mira onto the front porch. We each hug Maria. I hold her an extra long time. I manage not to cry. I may see her in two weeks...and I may not. 

I know this is what's best. 

Tiffany hooks her arm through mine as we watch Maria and Aunt Mira walk down the steps and toward the driveway. Tiffany may go, too. She'll come back, but she might not stay long. As they move down the walk, Maria slips her hand into Aunt Mira's. She takes the hand of a stranger and holds it. And somehow, it doesn't seem wrong. 


	66. Chapter 66

Tiffany leaves me at eleven o' clock on Tuesday. 

We wait together on the front porch with Tiffany's packed suitcase at our feet. I knew she would go. I knew it last night the moment she suggested the possibility. She'll be back. I know that, but I also know she's checking out her options. Tiffany, Maria, and I, we really only have each other and we must look out for one another, but I realize that also, at the same time, we must look out for ourselves. I understand why Maria left. I don't blame her. I don't want her to become like me either. Like me or Tiffany. There is hope for Maria. Maria can be saved. 

At exactly eleven on the dot, Tyler's Firebird pulls into the driveway. He's taking Tiffany to the Strathmoore to meet Maria and Aunt Mira. I should be driving her. I should have offered. I think everyone knows why I didn't. I said goodbye to Maria once, and once was enough. If I see her again, I may change my mind. I may not let her go. I understand that's why Maria left last night. She knew if given the chance, I might talk her out of leaving. Maria is smart. I think she may be smarter than us all. 

Tiffany and I watch Tyler load Tiffany's suitcase into the trunk. 

"You know I'm coming back," Tiffany tells me for probably the fiftieth time. 

I nod. "I know." 

"Are you sure you don't want to come? I'm sure Aunt Mira can get you a seat. Maybe not on our flight, but you'll get there just the same." 

I shake my head. I can't leave. Not yet. There's too much left to do. I can't run when I've not finished what I've started here. I have repairs to make, repairs to myself and to other people, to what I've done to them. Someday, maybe, I can leave. But not today. 

"I'll miss you," Tiffany tells me. She hugs me close. "You'll be all right, won't you?" 

"Yes, yes," I say and hug her back. "Take care of Maria. Watch out for her. Make sure they're actually good people." 

"I will," TIffany promises. "And when I come back things will be different. We'll make them different. They'll be better." 

I close my eyes and hug her tighter still. I hope so. I hope so. 

"I'm sorry for everything," TIffany says. 

"I'm sorry, too." 

"It'll be a new year when I come back. A fresh start," TIffany reminds me. "I love you, Shannon. You're my sister." 

"You're my sister, too," I reply. It means so much more underneath the surface. "And I love you." 

TIffany squeezes my shoulders and releases me. She steps back and smiles. Then she turns and starts down the front steps. She walks away. But at least I know she's coming back. Tiffany waves before ducking inside Tyler's car. I wave back. I manage to smile. I manage to feel happy over my sadness. I have to think of my sisters instead of myself. Maybe this - whatever this turns out to be - is not the answer, and then, maybe it is. I don't know. I don't think Aunt Mira knows either. But she's trying, trying like I once tried and failed. I know we're lucky that she's taking a chance on us at all. She knows all these things about Tiffany and I, all these horrid, wicked things we've done. Aunt Mira knows and she's still concerned, still interested in helping us work out a solution. That counts for something. It must. 

I'm still waving as Tyler's Firebird disappears around the corner. I stand for a while and stare at nothing, just the empty road. Then I sit down on the top step, cold beneath my jeans. All the snow has melted and now the air is simply chilled and biting. More snow will come in a couple days. It's a snowy December. Perhaps, that's fitting. Across the street, the Stevensons' house is dark and deserted. I wonder when they'll be home. I wonder how things will be when they return. Not everything is easy to piece back together, not everything falls effortlessly back into place. Time will tell. I wish it were more simple than that. A breeze picks up, cool and subtle. It blows against the side of my face, rustling my hair, whispering in my ear. I wrap my arms around my knees and look out at the neighborhood. No one is out. Everything is still and quiet. I realize I'm all alone. And I don't care. 

Nothing will ever be the same again. 

But I already knew that. 

Nothing is ever the same. We change, in an instant or gradually. It can be fast like catching afire and flaming into something new, burning down and burning out. It can be slow, creeping and methodical, unnoticed until the end when it is too late. The old Shannon is gone. She will never return. I will see glimpses of her the rest of my life, glimpses within myself, but I will never capture her. I am a new Shannon, broken and damaged. A new Shannon for a new life. 

I watch Elizabeth's roadster roll down the street and into her drive. Kristy's new Jeep is nowhere in sight. I watch Elizabeth climb out of the car and brush something off the front of her tan slacks, then she walks around to the trunk and pops it open. I am picking up the pieces of my shattered self, piecing and gluing a new Shannon together. She may always be damaged, but she does not have to be broken. She does not have to be empty. I rise from the top step and begin across my yard, arms folded tight over my chest, the breeze still blowing my hair. I walk briskly, a girl on a mission, a girl whose resolve may falter at any moment. I did it with Kristy, I did it with Mrs. Bryar, and even though she came to me, I did it with Anna. I can do it with Elizabeth, too. 

"Do you want some help?" I ask, stopping beside the open trunk. 

Elizabeth's bent inside, cramming spilled groceries back inside their bags. She turns her head and looks up at me. "If you want," she replies. "I only have these three bags though." 

"I'll carry one," I say. 

Elizabeth lifts a bag out of the trunk and presses it into my arms. I stand, holding it, watching her gather the last scattered cans. Then she removes the other two bags, balancing them in one arm while closing the trunk with her opposite hand. She begins up the driveway and I follow. 

"Where's Kristy?" I ask. 

"She took Mary Anne for a drive in the Jeep," Elizabeth answers as we come into the garage. The garage is littered with open, half-filled boxes. The Brewers must be doing some sort of after-Christmas cleaning. "I'm glad Kristy and Mary Anne have become such good friends again. They've spent a lot of time together these last few weeks." 

"Yeah, Mary Anne's nice," I say for lack of anything better. I haven't wondered too much about Mary Anne lately. She's slipped my mind like so many other people and things. "How is Mary Anne?" I ask Elizabeth. 

"She seems fine," Elizabeth says, leading us into the kitchen. She sets her bags on the table and begins unpacking them. 

I wonder if Mary Anne can possibly really be fine. I'm not fine and I chose, more or less, what happened to me. 

"Watson and Charlie volunteered to make dinner tonight. I promised to do all the shopping since they're doing all the cooking," Elizabeth says, still stacking cans and boxes onto the table. She's doing what she did yesterday, making light and meaningless conversation. It's odd that I once considered the Thomas-Brewers my surrogate family. It's odd that I once considered Elizabeth more than a neighbor. 

"Maria left," I tell her, plunging right in. I can't take any more polite conversation. "So did Tiffany. They're going to Evanston with our aunt." 

"I know," Elizabeth replies. "Until she called, I didn't even realize you have an aunt. Why didn't you go with them?" 

I shrug. 

"Self-imposed exile?" 

"Maybe." 

Elizabeth offers a half-smile, then turns and begins putting groceries away in the refrigerator. She isn't pushing. Why isn't she pushing? 

"I don't think Maria's coming back," I say. I pick up a bag of apples and tear open the plastic. I stack the apples in the fruit bowl on the table. 

Elizabeth shuts the refrigerator door and turns around. "Well...maybe it's best that she start over somewhere else. We'll miss her around here though. She's a sweet girl." 

"She may not stay that way if she comes back," I admit. It hurts to admit it, to speak it aloud. 

"You're still a nice girl, Shannon," Elizabeth tells me. 

"I thought I was a spiteful little witch." 

"I shouldn't have said that to you," Elizabeth says with a frown, folding one of the paper bags in half. "Even if it was true at the time. You were being spiteful. You were acting like a little witch. Perhaps, I should have been more understanding though. I know you were heartbroken, but then, so was I." Elizabeth's frown deepens and she spins around, so I no longer can see her face. 

"I shouldn't have said what I said either. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. It _was_ spiteful. I knew what I was doing. I wanted to hurt you." 

"I understand," Elizabeth says. She lifts the black and white-checked teapot off the stove and fills it with water. "Would you like some tea, Shannon?" she asks. 

"Yes, please," I reply and slide onto one of the benches and fold my hands in my lap. I watch Elizabeth some more. She turns on the burner and sets the teapot over it. She keeps her back to me. Maybe it's easier talking to her back. "I shouldn't have told you about Sam," I say, quickly, getting it over with. 

Elizabeth doesn't turn around. "No...you should have told me. Or Janet should have. I understand why you didn't and I understand why she didn't either. I am sorry for what Sam did to Tiffany. I can't tell you how sorry I am or how disappointed. It's difficult to admit to being disappointed in your own child and I've been disappointed for a long time. I suppose it was simply easier and more convenient to blame Janet. I realize that now." Elizabeth finally turns around. She leans back against the counter, resting her hands on its edge. "I'm not perfect, Shannon, even though I suspect you think that I believe I am. I know you think I'm self-righteous. Perhaps, I am. I can't help the way I am, Shannon." 

I nod. "I know," I say, quietly. "I realize...I realize now that you never meant to ruin my life." 

"I don't think your life is ruined. You're only seventeen," Elizabeth replies. "But you are right in that I never intended to ruin it. I didn't enjoy what happened to you. Not at all. It hurts that you would ever think that. I was concerned because I care about you. I wanted to help and perhaps, I could have done things differently. I don't know. I don't know what the correct solution was. I did what I thought best. I was very frustrated, Shannon. You wouldn't listen and your mother refused to return my calls and your father...your father actually seemed amused by the situation." 

"Did he tell you about his high school girlfriend?" 

"Yes, he did. And the next time I see her, I'm congratulating her for beating him up. Someone needs to smack some sense into him again," Elizabeth replies. Behind her, the teapot whistles. She removes it from the burner. "I did what I thought best," Elizabeth says again, back to me, reaching into a cabinet for two mugs. "That's all I can say." Elizabeth brings the mugs of hot water over to the table. She sets one in front of me. It has a rainbow on one side and _Karen_ on the other. Elizabeth brings over a canister of tea bags and I pick through them until I find the jasmine tea. It's the last one. I peel off the paper and dip the tea bag into the steaming water. I watch the water slowly turn brown, darker and darker, spreading out, consuming the clearness. 

"He would have found out sooner or later," I say, dully, staring down at the tea. I swirl my bag around. "Probably sooner. It could have been worse." I bite my lip, so I won't laugh. It could have been worse! How is that possible? My almost laugh turns to almost tears. 

"It's completely over then?" 

I nod. 

Elizabeth sits down across from me. She picks out a tea bag. Apple cinnamon. She dips the tea bag into her mug. "And how do you feel about that?" she asks me. 

I shrug because I really don't know. I don't know how I feel about much of anything anymore. "Sometimes I'm okay with it. And sometimes I miss him," I admit. I blow on my tea and take a sip. 

"Do you know his mother?" I ask. 

"I know who she is. I think I've met her a few times. But no, I don't know her. I'd never met him until that day at his apartment. Why?" 

I shrug again. "No reason," I lie. I won't tell Elizabeth about the abortion. Maybe at some past point I would have, but like with Anna, our relationship has changed. It's brittle and unsteady. It could shatter to dust at any moment. We aren't the same. Things between us aren't the same. There's only so much I can reveal in this moment, only so much I can hear myself say. 

We're quiet for a few seconds, then Elizabeth speaks. "I'm pleased that you and Kristy patched things up," she tells me. "She was so upset about everything. She worried about you a lot and missed you. So did I." 

"Kristy's a good friend," I say and take a small sip of my tea. "I don't think I ever realized." 

Elizabeth smiles slightly. "She tries, but like me, she doesn't always choose the best way to go about things. She means well. She would never intentionally hurt you, Shannon, just like I would not. I hope you understand that." 

"I do." 

"I'm glad you realize that, Shannon. I really am." Elizabeth reaches out and puts her hand on mine. It's a nice gesture coming from Elizabeth, who isn't very affectionate, not even with her own children, and especially not with me. "And next time, Shannon, I promise to try to be more understanding. We must learn from our mistakes." 

Yes, we must. 

The door from the garage bangs open and Elizabeth draws her hand back. Kristy appears in the kitchen dressed in the striped sweater I gave her for Christmas and what looks like brand new dark brown cords. Mary Anne's with her. She looks much better than when I saw her last. The bruise has disappeared. Whatever bruises Mr. Marshall left are unseen. Mary Anne looks like any other girl in her white parka and a pink and white-striped sweater. She and Kristy both have their hair pulled back in tight ponytails. It's strange how much they look alike when standing side by side. 

"Hi, Shannon," Kristy greets me. 

"Hi, Kristy. Hi, Mary Anne." 

Mary Anne looks at me without expression. "Hello, Shannon," she says. 

"Hi, girls," Elizabeth greets them and rises from the table. She crosses to the stove. "Would you like some tea?" 

"No thanks, Mom. We wanted to get some sodas, then we're going up to my room to listen to the tapes I got for Christmas. Do you want to come up with us, Shannon?" 

I glance over at Mary Anne. Her face is still void of expression, but I know she doesn't want me along. We covered something up together and now she wishes for me to disappear, too. That is a consequence for what we did. Maybe I should have listened to Abby. Maybe Abby was right all along. 

"No thanks. I have to get home." 

Kristy raises an eyebrow. "Why?" she asks. 

"Kristy!" Elizabeth exclaims. 

Kristy blushes slightly. "Well, I mean, aren't your sisters gone? Maria called David Michael this morning. Stay here with us. You shouldn't be at home alone. We can hang out. When Mr. Spier gets home from work, he's giving Mary Anne her first night driving lesson. Afterward, he promised to take us out for pizza. You can come, too. Don't worry, Mary Anne's not _too_ horrible of a driver. She only hit Janine Kishi that one time. She hasn't hit anyone since." 

"Yeah, come along," Mary Anne says in a rather flat voice. "We can have a pizza toast." 

Kristy throws her head back and laughs. 

Mary Anne's invitation isn't very welcoming. I don't exactly blame her. 

"No thanks. Greer's coming home today. We're going to hang out," I tell them. It's not completely a lie. Greer is returning from her long weekend in New York, but we haven't actually made plans. Although she's called several times, I haven't spoken to her since Thursday evening. 

"Oh...okay," Kristy says, hesitantly. She isn't sure whether or not to believe me. "I'll call you tonight though. Maybe I can come over or something." 

"Okay." 

Kristy hesitates a moment, then nudges Mary Anne in the arm. They cross the kitchen to the refrigerator and choose their sodas from inside the door. Then Kristy grabs a plate of frosted sugar cookies off the counter. 

"We'll be upstairs if you change your mind," she tells me. 

"Okay," I say. "I'll see you later, Kristy. Bye, Mary Anne." 

"Bye, Shannon," Mary Anne replies without glancing over her shoulder. 

When they're gone, Elizabeth comes back to the table. "You should go upstairs with them," she says. "You need your friends. It'll be good for you. You shouldn't sit around your house alone." 

"I won't," I assure her and take the last sip of my tea. It's lukewarm now. It doesn't taste very good. "At least not all the time. Thank you for the tea, Elizabeth. And thank you...for everything. Thank you for trying to help." 

Elizabeth smiles. "Thank you for coming over, Shannon. Come back tonight and have dinner with us. You're always welcome." 

I set my mug down and hesitate. We have to begin somewhere. I have to begin again. "Okay. I'll come for dinner. I'd like that." I smile at her. 

Elizabeth walks me to the front door. She pats my back before I step over the threshold. I apologize again. She apologizes, too. And I think we're done with our apologies. I think we're starting over. Starting over clean-slated. 

I'm amazed that so many people are willing to give me that courtesy. 

I return to my empty house. Astrid's asleep at the foot of the stairs. I step over her and walk up the stairs. I pause in Maria's doorway, looking in at her room, at all the things she left behind. Left them behind like she left me. I lean my head against the door frame. I stand and stare a long time. I don't cry. Maybe I am out of tears. Maybe that's a sign that I am ready to move on, that things are about to improve. No more tears, no more selfishness, no more feeling sorry for myself. 

I leave Maria's doorway and pass Tiffany's room. I glance in, but am not as sad. Tiffany is coming back. She's coming back for certain. Maybe she won't leave again. Maybe she'll stay here with me. I can hope. 

The message light flashes on my answering machine. Sometimes I see it and feel a little jolt. I remember how it used to be, whose messages used to wait for me. I don't expect them anymore. Not really. Maybe that's another sign. Another sign of moving on and letting go. I press the play button and wait for the messages to click on. 

"Hello, hello," Greer's voice fills the empty space in my room. "We got in from New York about an hour ago. I'm exhausted! Where are you? _How_ are you? I haven't spoken to you in forever and a day. Are you asleep? If you're asleep, why hasn't this message woken you up yet? Well, I'll try back in another hour or so. I hope you're doing all right." 

Greer hangs up and the second message clicks on. 

"Hello, Starshine," drones Sally White's monotone. "Where are you? I'm home now. We just got back...oh, twenty minutes ago. Why aren't you waiting by the phone for my call? I am disappointed, Starshine. Have you spoken to Greer? Because there's something I'd like to tell you: Greer Carson is a moron. If you speak to her, please tell her I said that. Thank you." 

Sally hangs up and the final message comes on. It's Sally again. "I realized I forgot to ask how you are," she says. "Please call me back and tell me." She hangs up again. 

The messages end. I smile as I erase them. I'll return the calls in a while. For now, I wrap my arms around myself and walk back downstairs. It's cold in my house. I go into Dad's study and turn on the heater. Then I go into the kitchen and pour a glass of grape juice. I need to eat lunch. I make a ham and swiss sandwich with mayo and pickles. It tastes delicious and I almost eat it all. 

I carry the remainder of my juice around the downstairs. I look at my house and wonder how it will feel without Tiffany and Maria. Empty, like this, I guess. And when Tiffany returns and Maria does not, I wonder how that will feel. I think of that, sadly, as I walk through the house. 

I stop at the window in the dining room. Kitty-corner, I see Kristy's new Jeep parked behind Elizabeth's roadster. Then across the street, Mrs. Stevenson's minivan is now parked in her driveway. The Stevenson have returned from the Hamptons. My sisters have left, but everyone else has come home. I gulp down the rest of my juice and watch through the curtains. Slowly like a trickle, everything falls back down, back into place, slightly disjointed, not quite the same, but with an effort we will fit together again. 

Maybe. 

I hope. 


	67. Chapter 67

Sally's at her piano when I visit on Wednesday afternoon. Her head is bent low, so her blonde hair falls over her face. She plays very fast, hitting the keys with great force. I wonder if this is where she spends all her time, rooted to the piano bench, banging out her funeral marches, oblivious to the world that exists around her. I don't know. I don't really know much about her. She knows so much about me, all my dirty little secrets, all my dirty little lies. Maybe that's how Sally likes it. She is aloof and mysterious, hidden in the shadows, and gets to see inside everyone else's lives. 

"Do you ever leave that piano?" I inquire, stepping through the doorway, crossing the room to her. 

"No," she answers without glancing up. 

"It must be lonely." 

"It's not." 

I stop beside the piano and rest an elbow on the side. I watch Sally, eyes raised to the sheet music in front of her, expression relaxed and serene. She doesn't look at me. She keeps her attention on the music. 

"How was your Christmas?" I ask her. 

"Mostly good," she answers. "I like New York at Christmas. I wouldn't want to live there though. Too many weirdoes." 

Is Sally White really the person to judge whether others are weird? 

"So, why is Greer a moron?" I ask. Sally wouldn't tell me on the phone last night. She said the memory was too upsetting at the moment. 

Sally snorts. "Because she is," Sally replies. She finally sits up straight, so I may see her clearly. She shakes back her hair. Never once do her fingers leave the piano keys. "So, Christmas Day in the afternoon, Greer and I meet at a coffee shop. We were only staying three blocks apart after all. We're together for, oh, thirty minutes or so, drinking our coffee and making fun of all the losers hanging out at a coffee shop on Christmas Day. Then this boy comes in. Eighteen, nineteen. Tall, cute, curly black hair. He picks Greer up. He picks her up in ten seconds flat. She leaves with him. Greer Carson is a moron." 

My jaw drops. Why am I even surprised? 

"I think Greer," Sally continues, "is one of those people who is smart about everyone else's life but their own. She gave you mostly good advice, although she's a bit of an enabler. But her own life? She is a moron. She obviously didn't learn from your mistakes. No offense." 

"None taken," I reply and honestly, I'm actually not offended. Surprisingly enough. "I guess Greer thinks she safe because she's on the pill and makes the guy wear a condom." 

"The pill and a condom won't protect her from being bludgeoned to death," Sally says, dryly. "My sister was plenty agitated about the whole thing. She was at the coffee shop with us. She was in the bathroom when Greer ran off with Prince Charming." 

I raise my eyebrows. "You have a sister?" I ask. 

Sally looks up at me. "Yes," she replies. "A half-sister, actually. I have a half-brother, too. They're from my father's first marriage. They're older. Early-thirties. We stayed with my sister in New York. She's a costume designer for Broadway shows." 

"I didn't know that." 

"Why would you? I never told you. For once, your lack of information isn't due to your lack of listening skills." 

"I'm working on that." 

"Good. You should." 

I raise my eyebrows again, even though I know she's right. I could do without her being so upfront about it though. "So, are you mad at Greer now?" I ask. 

"No. I just think she's a moron. Greer isn't so bad, really. A bit annoying, way too dramatic, and of course, quite idiotic when it comes to boys. But she has her good points. She can be fun when she isn't preening or showing off or flirting with strange boys." 

"Wait - you're saying you _like_ Greer, right?" I interrupt. 

Sally actually chuckles. It's low and slight, but a chuckle nonetheless. "In spite of her many, many faults, I like Greer," she confirms and smiles somewhat, the corners of her mouth barely inching upward. "Of course," Sally says, her voice cool and smooth, "I much prefer you and Kat. I even like that Abigross and I think I could like Lindsey if she wasn't so convinced that everyone must like her. Meg Jardin, I can do without." 

My eyebrows go up for a third time. "Are you admitting that you like us?" 

"I'm sure I've told you before. Probably you weren't listening." 

Probably she's right. 

"I should warn you, however," Sally continues on, "that while we were in New York, my mother talked about New Zealand a lot. She's become fascinated with the country." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, confused. 

"It means we may be moving." 

"To _New Zealand_?" I gasp. 

Sally raises her shoulders slightly. "Maybe, maybe not. My parents promised we wouldn't move again until after I graduated. Of course, parents don't always keep their promises, do they?" 

I shake my head, slowly, sadly. Parents are disappointing people. Sometimes. Some people's parents at least. Like mine. 

"I actually think I might miss you if you leave," I admit. I surprise myself admitting it. I surprise myself even thinking and feeling it. Will I ever figure out when I stopped loathing Sally White? I suppose it doesn't matter. 

Sally raises her eyes. She's surprised too. I see it passes over her eyes, quickly and disappear. "Really?" she says and her voice loses that bored tone. It's her other voice, the voice she's slipped into once or twice before. It's younger and higher. I suspect it's her real voice, a voice she hides, hides behind a toneless fake one like a protective shield. "I don't think anyone's ever missed me before," she says. 

"I would be the first then," I tell her. "Or one of the first. I think Kristy might miss you, too, although she'd never admit it." 

Sally smiles, slyly, like she holds a secret. "I wouldn't admit the same to her either." 

I laugh. 

"You look much better than you did on Thursday," Sally observes. She finally rests her hands on the piano keys. She's finished. She drops her hands to her lap. "Let's go up to my room," she suggests and slides off the piano bench. "You've started eating again?" 

"Yes." 

Sally leads me up the stairs, floorboards creaking beneath our feet. We wind our way up to her bedroom. It looks the same as before. Most bare, except for the boxes. No wonder she didn't unpack. She suspected what could be coming. How awful to constantly live in limbo. In limbo is where I currently reside, a transitional state, but I don't intend to remain here forever. Not like Sally, who has spent her entire life here, always somewhere in between, never belonging, never staying long enough to begin to belong. 

Sally shuts her bedroom door. She throws herself on the bed, on her stomach and kicks her legs. She's wearing tan suede boots. They look brand new. I bet her parents gave them to her for Christmas. 

"What was the abortion like?" Sally asks, bluntly. 

"You mean the actual procedure? I don't know. I mean, I was under anesthesia. It was quick. It took only ten minutes or so. Afterward, I was tired and I spotted and cramped for a few days. That's stopped now. Now it's like it never happened." I bite my lip and shrug. 

"Are you regretting it?" 

I shrug again. "I don't know. Sometimes, I guess. I wish things could have been different. Obviously, I wish they could have been different. But then...I'm so relieved it's over. I don't have to deal with the pregnancy anymore. I just have to deal with everything that comes after." I bend one of my legs underneath me in the armchair. I tap the heel of the other foot against the floorboards. "I saw Wes, you know. Before the abortion. I think I understand what you were trying to tell me all along. You and Greer. But mostly you. Wes will never be the same and it's all my fault. And you know what? He's worried about _me_. He wants me to see a therapist. So does his mother. I don't think I could do that though." 

Sally rests her chin in her hands and regards me for a long moment. "Why not?" she finally asks. "You're telling me all these things. You tell them to Greer and to Kat, don't you?" 

"But that's different. I _know_ you." 

"Shouldn't that make it harder?" 

I shrug because I really don't know. 

"Maybe you should consider it." 

I shrug again. Maybe I will. 

"It might help. You have serious issues, Starshine. You realize this. They won't just go away." 

"I know," I say, nodding. 

"It's good that you know that," Sally tells me. She fingers the necklace hanging around her neck. I've never seen it before. It's a heart-shaped ruby pendant on a thin gold chain. I bet her parents gave her that for Christmas, too. "But it's not like you're alone. You have me and Kat. And Greer when she's not off being a moron. Just don't go to New York with her." 

"I'll keep that in mind," I say with a laugh. A laugh that's bittersweet. 

I leave Sally's house about an hour later. She walks me downstairs. It's bizarre thinking about it as I walk down the stairs beside Sally, her new suede boots thudding on the wooden steps, that I am at Sally White's house, hanging out, and she is sort of my friend. Three months ago, if I had glimpsed this moment in my life, I would not have believed it. But then, there are so many things about myself that I would not have believed three months ago. Three months. Such a short passage of time with so much packed in. If I spread it out on a timeline, it would be crammed close with lies and deceit, heartbreak and disappointment, remorse and grief. I wonder if I could trace myself back through the timeline, discover where I left the old me. Would there be a point? No. It would only frustrate me, fill me with more regret, and to what purpose? None. I can't unravel time. I can't undo anything that I have done. 

Sally holds the front door open for me and I turn in the doorway. "You know," I say to her, "even though you're incredibly obnoxious, I hope you don't move to New Zealand." 

One corner of Sally's mouth moves upward. "And even though you're a self-centered control freak, I hope I don't move to New Zealand either." 

I smile back at her. 

"Goodbye, Sally." 

"Goodbye, Shannon." 

I step over the threshold and the door closes behind me. 

I didn't drive to Sally's house. I walked because I decided I needed the fresh air. It's only a few blocks and it's not like I have any pressing engagements to hurry off to anyway. When I reach the end of Sally's neverending driveway, I turn right and nearly topple over Meg Jardin. We both jump back and freeze. She eyes me rather suspiciously. I don't blame her. I haven't been particularly friendly to her, even when she's attempted to be civil. Meg's holding a black and purple braided leash in her hand. At the other end of the leash is a brown and white shih-tzu with its hair pulled out of its eyes with a tiny lavender bow. I recognize the dog as Meg's aunt's. 

"Is your aunt away for the holidays?" I ask. 

"Yes. She went to France to spend Christmas with Aunt Beatrice." 

"Is your mother aware that you're walking around the neighborhood with a dog?" I ask, ice creeping into my voice. I don't intend for it to burrow its way in. It just does. 

Meg scowls. "Yes," she replies, shortly. "She said that if I insisted on walking the dog, then I could go ahead and do it." 

"Your mother's loosening up," I observe. "Aren't you the one usually on the leash?" 

Meg's scowl intensifies. I'm amazed that she still looks pretty, even with her eyes narrowed to slits and her cherry red lips puckered with irritation. 

I start to feel bad. I remember that Meg used to be my friend. I used to like more things about her than I disliked. 

"Did you have a nice holiday?" I ask in what I hope is a friendly tone. 

Meg's scowl disappears. It melts away effortlessly. She's serenely beautiful again, instead of angrily beautiful. She shrugs. "It was the usual," she answers, nonchalantly. "Your dad got drunk at our Christmas Eve party. He hit on Kara Ferguison." 

Even drunk my father should have better taste than Kara Ferguison. 

"I'm not my father's keeper," I tell her. 

"I know. It wasn't a big deal. I think Kara appreciated the attention. And anyway, my dad got drunk and felt up Mrs. Brown, so really, your father wasn't the biggest jerk of the evening." 

Well, that's good to know. 

"Are you still dating that Price Irving?" I ask. The word "jerk" brought him to mind. 

Meg must realize that because she frowns at me. "Yes. We're still together," she answers, tightly. 

"Why are you wasting your time on that imbecile?" I demand. 

"He isn't an imbecile," Meg protests without passion. Maybe she doesn't believe herself either. "I think he's funny. And he can be very nice. Maybe if people would give him a chance, maybe if people would stop beating him up all the time, he could be himself. Ross Brown and his friends, all they ever do is pick on Price. Price has to defend himself. And it's not just the boys, girls are always beating him up, too! Punching him, biting him, headbutting him." 

I roll my eyes. Yes, surely, Price is the victim in all this. "I still don't understand why you're wasting your time on him," I tell her, testily. 

"Because it's my choice," she answers, simply. "I choose to date him. I've never been allowed to choose before." 

"Well, you made the wrong choice." 

"But it's my choice." 

I regard Meg, my childhood friend. My mouth turns down slightly at the corners. Maybe I can't judge her. Maybe I am the last person who should judge. 

"It's your choice," I agree. 

Meg nods and looks down at the dog. She tugs lightly backward on its leash, clucks her tongue at it. 

"How's your diet?" I ask. 

"What diet?" 

"Your wrists." 

"Oh. That," Meg replies, still looking down at the dog. "It's fine. It's fine." 

I watch her a moment more. "Your mother isn't doing anything to your wrists, is she?" I finally ask. "It's some bizarre Price Irving thing, isn't it?" 

"I guess if we were still friends I'd tell you," Meg answers. It isn't mean. It isn't biting. It's spoken as the truth, not even a reluctant truth, but simply as truth that exists as known fact. 

_If we were still friends..._

I know Meg and I will never be friends again. That time has ended for us. I will remember her in the future, near and distant. I will remember her and mourn her in little ways. But there is no turning back, no rewinding for a do-over, no changing the girls we've become. Meg and I say our goodbyes, wish each other a happy holiday season, and part ways. We move on in opposite directions, on the same narrow sidewalk, but backs to each other, furthering the distance between. 

I walk the two blocks to Edgerstone where Greer lives. She's in her front yard with her brother, Beer. He's unwinding Christmas lights from the rose bushes. I suppose Greer's supposed to be helping. Instead she's on the front lawn swinging a squash racket. 

"What are you doing?" I ask, turning up her driveway. 

Greer stops swinging the racket. "Practicing," she says, like it's obvious. Greer's never played squash a day in her life. "My aunt and uncle gave me squash equipment for Christmas," she explains. "Kind of pretentious, isn't it? Very New England upper-class." Greer swings the racket again with frightening power. She could take someone's head off with that thing. 

"I just saw Meg walking a dog," I inform her. 

"Are you serious?" Greer asks with a laugh. "Meg Jardin?" 

"It was oddly unsettling," I reply. I come to a stop a few feet from Greer. I slide my hands into the pockets of my coat. "I'm just coming from Sally's." 

Greer laughs again. "Did she tell you I'm a moron?" 

"Yes." 

"She told me, too. Come on, let's go inside. Finish up, Beer!" she shouts to her brother and whacks him playfully with the racket as she jogs past. 

The inside of Greer's house is still decorated for Christmas. The three Christmas trees are still lined up in front of the windows, their blue, green, and purple bulbs gleaming and shimmering in the light streaming in from the outside. Some of the needles have dried and dropped off, scattering underneath on the cream-colored carpet. Greer's house even still smells like Christmas, like sharp and spicy cinnamon. I exchange hellos with Mr. and Mrs. Carson, who are seated side by side on the living room couch, flipping through a stack of photographs. Then I follow Greer up the stairs. Red and gold garland winds up the banister. When we reach the top of the stairs, I look back over my shoulder, down at the ground floor of Greer's house, at the glimmering Christmas trees and the glittery garland and the candy dishes and holiday knick-knacks set out on the coffee tables. And there is a sadness, a disappointment in my own life, sweeping over me. 

"Are you coming?" Greer asks. She's halfway down the hallway already. 

I turn back around and follow. I close the door to her bedroom behind us, then sit down on Greer's bed. I scoot back and lean against the headboard, Greer's down pillows cushioning my back. Greer flops down in her recliner, throwing a leg over an arm. She props an elbow on the other arm and rests her chin in her hand. A couple auburn curls fall over her eyes. She brushes them away. 

"So, how are you feeling?" Greer asks. 

I wonder how much longer people will ask me that. Forever? I hope not. But at least people care. 

"Right now? I feel okay," I reply. I pick up a small stuffed duck from on top of Greer's alarm clock. It's wearing a tiny Yale t-shirt. "Did Beer give you this?" 

"Yep." 

"It's cute." I set the duck back on its perch. "I don't really want to talk about the abortion anymore," I tell Greer. I'm all talked out. I'm drained in so many way. Emptied out. 

"Oh?" Greer says, cocking an eyebrow. Of course she's surprised. She's been away, having a happy holiday. "All right. If you don't want to talk about it, we won't. What else is new?" 

I shrug and cross my legs and fold my hands over my stomach. There's so much. So much has happened in a span of five days. Less than a week of my life. A handful of days and I am altered forever because of them. How can Greer understand? Truly understand? Her life is carefree and uninterrupted. She can afford to be irresponsible. No one leans on her. 

"What about this guy from the coffee shop?" I ask. I don't need to talk about myself all the time. I've learned that. 

"Harold?" 

"Did you pick up more than one boy at a coffee shop this weekend?" I ask, although I wouldn't be shocked at all. She was away for three and a half days. 

"No. Just the one. And I really didn't pick him up, he picked me up. His name's Harold and he goes to Columbia. He's nineteen and he's really cute. I may see him again the next time I go into the city." 

"His name is _Harold_?" I ask, wrinkling my nose. That sounds like the name of an old man. "You slept with a guy named Harold?" 

"I didn't sleep with him," Greer replies. "Apparently, not all guys are into one night stands. Maybe I'll get him next time. It could be a fun pursuit. I need a challenge in my life." Greer smiles and leans her head back. "No, I've still only racked up six conquests. I'm still on the lookout for lucky number seven. Hey, maybe I'll make it to ten by graduation. I could make a top ten list." 

I frown at her. "Why do you do this?" I ask. "It's dangerous, running off with boys you don't know and having sex with them." 

"I know. That's why it's exciting." 

I don't understand Greer. It's strange that we were once best friends. We're such separate people now. Maybe we'll always be friends, friends on some level, but I'll probably never understand her completely. I'll probably not always like her either. 

"Don't you want to be in love?" I ask Greer. "Don't you want to have sex with someone you love?" 

"Not really. I mean, not right now. I'm too young and selfish to fall in love," Greer answers and shakes another curl out of her eyes. "I just want to have fun. And I think, maybe being in love isn't so great. It seems like a lot of work. It's too much responsibility. And...well...you were in love and things didn't exactly work out too swell for you." Greer blushes slightly at her rudeness. 

I'm actually not offended. She speaks the truth. 

"No, it didn't work out too swell," I agree. "But that had nothing to do with love. It's all because I lied. It's my own fault." I pause and consider my next words, carefully, wondering if I can actually speak them out loud. I decide I can. "I regret what I did. I really do. But in a way, I'm actually glad Wes was my first. Or more, that my first was someone who truly cared about me. I'm glad I didn't give up my virginity to the first boy who wanted it, or to some boy who didn't honestly feel anything for me. Is that awful, Greer? After everything that's happened, is that an awful, selfish way to feel?" 

Greer studies me, thoughtfully, the seconds dragging, ticking away. She thinks. She considers. 

"I don't know," she finally says. "Maybe all feelings are a little selfish. Maybe you can't help that. But I don't think you're awful for feeling that way. You aren't relieved about what you've done. You're relieved that your first time wasn't terrible. You're grateful that you were loved." 

I nod and then rest my head back against the headboard. "Maybe you're right," I say. "I'm still so confused about everything. My mind changes all the time about every little thing. I don't know how I really feel about anything. Not anything at all. But I do know, I'm done with sex and love. For a while at least. Maybe a long while." 

"That's probably for the best." 

"Yes," I agree. "It's for the best." 


	68. Chapter 68

I've never been to New Britain, but I drive up there on Friday. New Britain is an hour and a half from Stoneybrook. It's where Charlie Thomas goes to college and where Kristy hopes to go next fall. And it's where Lindsey's at in a private psychiatric hospital. I decided yesterday while Kristy was demonstrating how to use the washing machine that I wanted to visit Lindsey. Kristy saw her last week and said it wasn't weird or awkward or anything. She said Lindsey isn't in a padded cell or doped out of her mind or strapped to a bed. She said that Lindsey seemed like Lindsey, the Lindsey we usually know. They talked about normal things like school and Christmas and the SDS softball team. Kristy made it sound so effortless. And for Kristy, it probably was. 

I called Mister Dr. Dupree last night and he promised to telephone the hospital to have me put on the visitor's list. He sounded delighted that I wanted to visit Lindsey, which only gave me a guilty twisting in my stomach since I had forgotten her for so long. I haven't even written. I've dropped out of her life, off the face of the earth as far as Lindsey's concerned. I am a bad friend. I'm trying to be better. 

Oak Hills Psychiatric Hospital sits on the edge of New Britain. I roll through the gates at eleven-thirty, stopping at the guard post for my parking pass. I pause a moment there before continuing on, tilting my head to gaze out at Oak Hills. It looks a lot like the psychiatric hospitals I've seen in movies - a massive estate with steep front steps leading to a sprawling porch. The lawn rolls long in front of the building, wrapping around the back. In December, Oak Hills is gloomy and gray like the rest of Connecticut, but I imagine that in the spring, it's a much more welcoming place. 

Inside, I check in at the desk. The receptionist consults the day's visitors list for my name, marks me off, and hands me a badge to clip onto my sweater. Then she points me to the elevator with directions on how to reach the visitors lounge. There's a nervous fluttering in my stomach as I stand in the elevator with an orderly and a middle-aged man who's sucking his thumb. I wonder if Kristy was wrong, or if she glossed over the truth. I'm uncertain as to what to expect. 

I wait for Lindsey in a corner of the lounge, seated on a white wicker chair with a lumpy blue and yellow polka dot cushion. The lounge is filled with patients and their visitors. I can tell the two apart because the patients mill around in their pajamas. Some of them look completely normal and some look...well, not. I sit very straight in the wicker chair, hands resting on its arms, trying not to stare. I bite my lip and watch the door. 

Lindsey appears a couple minutes later. She looks like Lindsey, more or less. The usual Lindsey, the Lindsey I've grown up with. She's wearing pajamas like all the other patients - white, pale yellow, and lilac striped cotton pajamas underneath a dark purple robe. Her blonde hair's pushed back with a white braided headband. It's still shocking to see it so short, bluntly cut above her chin. 

I stand as she nears. "Hi, Lindsey," I greet her a bit unsurely. Am I supposed to hug her? Am I supposed to smile? 

"Hi, Shannon," she replies and gives me a small smile. "Thanks for coming. It's a nice surprise." Lindsey sits down in the wicker chair opposite mine. 

I take my seat again. I try not to sit so stiffly. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come," I apologize. 

"It's okay. Kristy said you've been having a rough time lately. That guy, I guess." 

"Something like that," I say, softly. I pause a moment and fidget with my sweater. It's the sweater Tiffany gave me for Christmas, the daring, low-cut one. I put it on over a black tank top and now realize I look like I've shown up for Halloween two months late. "Have you had many visitors?" I ask Lindsey. 

Lindsey shrugs. "Now that Stoneybrook U. is out for winter break George and Sadie come about every other day. Sometimes, they come two or three days in a row. Kristy came last Saturday, of course. And some of my relatives from Hartford have visited. Not many people know I'm here though. I'm glad for that. I don't want anyone knowing...thinking I'm crazy." Lindsey pauses and plays with the belt on her robe. "I guess everyone thinks I have mono. I've received a lot of cards. George and Sadie bring them when they visit. A lot of people have written notes and letters. Greer sent a seven page letter all about the Christmas pageant. I'm sorry I missed it. And then, I've heard from Abby, of course, and Amanda Kerner and the softball team, most of the yearbook club, too. Sally White even sent a card. It was pretty weird. Not just getting a card from her, but what she wrote. She's strange. And I heard from Meg. She's sent several cards, actually. I guess she wants to be friends again. I don't know if that can happen." 

"I saw her the other day. She's still dating that boy." 

"I figured." 

"So, how is it here? Do you like it?" I immediately regret my word choice. Of course she doesn't _like_ it. My face flushes with warmth. 

Lindsey just shrugs again. "It's okay. I mean, it's better than I expected. Most of the staff is really nice and I like my new doctors. I've only seen Dr. Petrinski once since she brought me in. She came by last week before leaving on vacation. She isn't so awful, I guess. Some of the other patients are kind of creepy. My roommate's a compulsive liar. That's annoying." Lindsey stops for a breath and looks down at her hands, resting on her thighs. "I'm sorry that I've missed everything though. I missed everything that's happened at school and the Christmas pageant. I missed Hanukkah and Christmas. And I'm really upset that I missed the Winter Ball at Stoneybrook High. I had such a pretty dress and now I'll never wear it. Kristy told me that Ross went to the ball with another girl. I guess she asked him after he dumped me. Some girl named Lauren." 

My jaw drops. "Does she have blonde hair?" I demand. 

"How am I supposed to know?" 

I close my mouth and blush again. Right. How would she know? And it doesn't matter. 

"I wouldn't worry too much about Ross Brown," I tell Lindsey. "He's a nice enough guy, but he's kind of a flake. I mean, back in eighth grade, he went from liking Abby to Anna pretty easily. Then he liked me and switched to you in just one night. I don't think he knows what he wants." 

"Maybe," Lindsey says. "It doesn't matter though. He really wasn't my serious boyfriend or anything. Sadie says I need to stop worrying so much about boys anyway. Maybe she's right. It's too bad, though, because Ross' friend Paul is sort of cute." 

"And so charming," I reply. 

Lindsey smiles. It's tiny, but it's there, tugging upward at the corners of her lips. She sighs and turns her head to stare out the window. She doesn't speak for a while. She simply stares. 

"You know the worst part about being in here?" she finally asks. She's still looking out the window at the dismal gray day. 

"No. What?" 

"Being in here means that I'm never going to get better," she answers. "Not really. I mean, if I take my medication correctly and work hard, I can control it, but I'm never going to be completely well. I'll always be sick. I'll always be crazy. Just maybe not apparently so. I can still relapse. I can relapse for the rest of my life at any time. That's scary. The disorder is pretty severe for me. I'm worse off than other people. I knew that before, but...I could pretend it wasn't so. And now I'm here. It's very real now. And I think about the rest of my life and it seems so bleak. What if I spend my entire life coming in and out of Oak Hills? Bipolar disorder is a disability and some people are never able to function in regular society. That could be me. It's really scary." 

I watch her, not knowing what to say. She may be right. I don't know. I don't know anything about what's wrong with her. If I were a true friend, I would know. 

After a few seconds slip by, I say, "You know what? Maybe you don't have to worry." Lindsey looks over at me. "Why not?" 

"Well...remember the last month or so of school and how I was always forgetting to finish my homework?" 

"Yeah..." 

"Well, that was because I was so wrapped up in Wes. I was so focused on him and our relationship, and then later, on the end of our relationship and being angry that I never had time for my assignments. I didn't care. But you, Lindsey, gosh, you were overmedicating yourself and having manic episodes and you _still_ did all your homework. Not only that, you did all your work for the yearbook. You did my work and your own. I mean, you were spiraling out of control and you still got a ninety-nine on your Jane Grey paper." 

"That's true," Lindsey replies, slowly. "But Sadie helped me with that paper." 

"Did she write it for you?" 

"Of course not. She helped me with the research and the outline, then she proofread each draft. I did all the writing myself." 

"See?" 

"I guess," Lindsey says. She doesn't look convinced. She pulls on a lock of hair and rubs the ends between her fingers. Certainly, she misses her hair, her beautiful, flowing hair. It'll take years to grow so long again. I wonder if she'll break herself of her habit finally, her habit of chewing her hair, or if it will come back the moment the strands reach her mouth again. 

"How is your grandmother?" I ask. 

"You mean since I stabbed her with the kitchen scissors?" Lindsey replies. It isn't a joke. She says it quite seriously. "She's fine. I mean, fine considering that I stabbed her. She isn't mad, you know. I thought she would be." 

"Of course she isn't mad. She knows you're sick." 

"Sometimes I feel like such a burden," Lindsey says, dully. "George and Sadie, they went through all this with my mother and now they have to go through it with me. They _have_ been going through it with me, for years. It's so unfair to them. I bet they wish I wasn't around, that they didn't have to deal with me. They're strapped down because of me. And because of my mother." Lindsey drops the lock of hair and turns her eyes on me. "Can I tell you something, Shannon?" she asks. "Will you promise not to tell anyone?" 

"I promise," I reply and I am sure I know what she's about to say. The truth. After all these years, Lindsey is about to admit the truth I've known for so long. 

"My parents didn't die in a trainwreck," Lindsey tells me. "I made that up. I didn't want people to know the truth. They left me. They went to the store for a carton of milk and never came back. They just left me behind with George and Sadie." Lindsey sighs, a strange sigh, a sigh of relief, of finally being unburdened. The truth can be releasing. "My mother was sick, too, like me. George and Sadie don't talk about it much. They never talk about her. It's like she never existed, almost. She was very sick though and they sent her away to an institution. I guess institutions weren't very nice back then, not like here. When they were going to send her away a second time, she ran away. They looked for her a long time. Then one day, she came back and she had me and my dad. And then they left again. They never came back." 

Lindsey spreads her fingers out on her knee, spreads them out and stares at them. She doesn't look at me. "I don't think they looked for her again. They didn't want her to come back. Once, I guess I was about five and we were still living in Hartford, I overheard George and Sadie fighting. I wasn't sick yet, so I know I really heard it. Sadie said, 'I hope Charmaine never comes back.' I don't remember what George said back to her. All I remember is, 'I hope Charmaine never comes back.' It plays over and over in my head sometimes. What if that's me someday? They could erase me like they erased my mother. I could go away and they may hope I never come back." Lindsey bites her bottom lip. She bites it so it disappears and all I see are the ends of her top front teeth. 

We are silent awhile. I let time drift away in my hesitation. I have to think. I have to treat Lindsey delicately, like something precious and breakable. Right now, that is exactly what Lindsey is. Something occurs to me. 

"You know what?" I ask and sit up straighter. "Maybe you took what she said the wrong way. Maybe it's not so much that she didn't want your mom to come back. Maybe it's that your grandmother was afraid your mom would show up and try to take you away. Your grandparents had been raising you all that time. You're kind of like their daughter. We don't know all what happened between them and your mother. It couldn't have been easy for them. You were like a second chance." 

Lindsey's eyes light up ever so slightly. "Oh...maybe," she says. "I never thought of it like that." Her eyes dim and she frowns. "I wasn't much of a second chance. I turned out just like my mother." 

"You can't help that you're sick," I remind her. "And you aren't just like your mother. You're still here, aren't you? You didn't run away. You're getting help." 

Lindsey shrugs. She starts twisting the belt of her robe around her hand, just like she used to do with her braid. 

I watch her a moment. She's very sad to look at, sick and scared and doubting. "You're lucky, in a way, you know," I tell her and she glances up at me in surprise. "I mean, not because you're sick. You're lucky because your grandparents really love you. I mean, you stabbed your grandmother and she's not even upset about it. She doesn't blame you. Instead, she visits you almost every day. That's a nearly three hour drive each day and both your grandparents make it. And they do all these things for you. It's not just that they bought you a car or gave you a credit card or buy you nice clothes. My parents do that, too, but it's not out of love. It's more than that for you. Your grandmother helps you with your homework and your grandfather remembers to pick up your favorite magazines when he's at the grocery store. I know they're really strict and that they make you sit through about five hours of religious services each weekend, but it's not like they do it to be mean. They really love you. You're lucky, Lindsey." 

Lindsey sits back in the chair, resting her blonde head against the tall white wicker back. She doesn't say anything. She makes her lemon face. I almost laugh. I've missed it. I never thought I would. 

"You could be right," she finally says. 

I nod. For once, I think I've gotten it right. 

"You could be right," Lindsey repeats, then she doesn't speak again for several seconds. She's thinking. It's apparent in her eyes. The wheels are spinning, turning, around and around in motion. "I've been thinking since I got here...well, ever since I could think clearly," Lindsey tells me. "When my mother was institutionalized, or actually right before, that's when Sadie started drinking. What if she starts drinking again? I could drive her to drink just like my mother did. She said that to me not long ago - 'You're going to drive me to drink just like Charmaine did!' Or else, I'm pretty sure she said it. Sometimes she says things like that, like when she threatened to cut off my hair. She doesn't mean those things. I frustrate her. I remind her so much of my mother and I think that scares her. I don't want her to start drinking again. Kristy promised to check up on her. Will you, too? Just while I'm in here." 

"Yes. I will," I reply, nodding. 

Lindsey smiles. She reaches out and takes my hand. "Thank you. You're such a good friend, Shannon." 

Lindsey's likely the only person who thinks that, the only person who never stopped thinking it. If she only knew. If she only knew all the things that have occurred in her absence. Life has spiraled on while she's been here, spiraled beyond my control, and I have unraveled. Lindsey doesn't know. Perhaps, she'll never know. 

Lindsey sighs again and offers a small, wary smile. She doesn't look exactly like the old Lindsey and there's a quiet sadness in her face, but somehow, at the same time, she looks almost content. Maybe those two things can co-exist, sadness and contentment. Maybe it's a sign of moving on, of getting better. I hope so. 

"So...what's going on with you?" Lindsey asks me. "What happened with that guy? Kristy wouldn't tell me." 

"There's nothing to tell," I lie. 

Lindsey looks disappointed. "Oh..." she says. "I guess he found out?" 

"He found out," I confirm. "I don't really want to talk about it though." 

"Oh..." Lindsey replies. She tries to hide her increasing disappointment with another small smile. She wants the details. She wants the dirt. She wants me to confide in her like old times. Things have changed and I am spent. "Has anything else happened?" Lindsey asks. "How was your Christmas?" 

"Fine. Tiffany gave me this sweater. We went over to Kristy's house for lunch and it was a lot of fun. Then we visited Mrs. Bryar, you know, our former housekeeper. She quit awhile ago. I guess you wouldn't know that. But we visited her in the afternoon, even though she's Jewish." I feel a bit proud of myself for remembering, like I feel a bit proud whenever I remember the details I am told. I am learning to listen. 

"Yeah, she goes to our synagogue," Lindsey tells me. 

I am slightly less proud of myself now. 

"You had a nice Christmas then," Lindsey says, a tad wistfully. She doesn't ask about my parents. She knows how little they matter. They're not even part of the equation. Even to Lindsey, the Thomas-Brewers and Mrs. Bryar make more sense than a holiday with my parents. "Christmas here was okay. George and Sadie stayed most of the day. They brought me some of my presents. The others are waiting at home, things I'm not allowed in here. I really want to go home, Shannon." 

"You'll be home soon," I promise. "And things will be better. Everyone misses you, Lindsey." I reach forward and set my hand on hers. 

Lindsey sniffles and nods. She smiles once more, her weary smile, so different than the one I've known. And then her face changes. It lights a little and she sits up straighter. "There are George and Sadie now!" she exclaims. She actually appears excited to see them. 

I turn in my chair and see the Drs. Dupree crossing the lounge toward us. Mister Dr. Dupree is holding a paper sack in his arms and beside him, Dr. Dupree smiles her lovely, friendly smile. My gaze shifts momentarily to the space between her right breast and shoulder, where Lindsey stabbed her. I wonder if she still has the stitches. I wonder if she'll have a scar, a constant reminder of what her granddaughter did to her. 

"Hello, Shannon!" Dr. Dupree greets me. She stops beside my chair and lays her hand on my shoulder. She continues to smile. "Lovely to see you again. George and I are so pleased you've come to visit Lindsey." 

"Yes," Mister Dr. Dupree agrees. "Thank you for coming." 

"I should have come long ago," I reply, embarrassed. I should have. I should have at least written or called. I shouldn't have forgotten Lindsey, brushed her aside. 

"Hello, darling," Dr. Dupree chirps to Lindsey, sweeping to her side. She leans down and kisses Lindsey's forehead. "How are you today?" 

"Okay," Lindsey answers. 

"We brought the pajamas you wanted," her grandfather tells her and sets the paper sack at her feet. "And the magazines you asked for." He sets his hand on the back of her head and sort of pets it. 

Dr. Dupree glances over at me. "Have a happy Christmas?" she inquires. 

"Yes. Fine," I lie and rise to my feet. I pick up my purse and lift it onto my shoulder. "Well...I guess I'll go now." 

"You don't have to leave, Shannon," Mister Dr. Dupree insists. 

"We'll let you finish with Lindsey," Dr. Dupree adds. "We'd like to speak with her doctor anyway." 

"No. It's okay. I think we're done. Right, Lindsey?" 

Lindsey nods. "Yes. Thank you for coming, Shannon." 

"Of course," I say and bend down to hug her briefly. "Happy early New Year. I hope you're back in Stoneybrook soon." 

"Me too." 

I say goodbye to the Drs. Dupree and head toward the exit. I turn in the doorway and watch Lindsey and her grandparents for a moment. The Drs. Dupree are kneeling on either side of Lindsey's chair. Lindsey's speaking as her grandparents smile and nod. They all laugh. 

And I feel a flicker of envy toward someone currently residing in a psychiatric hospital. 

The drive home seems to take much longer. It's lonelier, too. I stop at a gas station in New Haven and fill up my tank, then I go inside and buy a small butter pecan cappuccino. I don't even like coffee, but I sip it slowly and it warms me up. I think about Lindsey a lot during the drive. I think about how, in spite of everything, she is lucky. In some ways. I think a lot about us all. All my friends and all my family, all the people who I've hurt and who've hurt me. There is a lot, piling up and flooding over, a lot that has happened in just a few months. And then, a lot that has been building up for much longer. 

When I pull into my driveway, Anna Stevenson's at the front door. She's knocking just as I roar into the drive. I'm surprised to see her. She hasn't been around much, it seems, since returning from the Hamptons. We walked Astrid together yesterday, but otherwise, I've not seen her at all. I park in the garage and jump out of the car, coming down into the drive where Anna now stands. She has her hands in the pockets of her gray zip-up sweatshirt. It's much too cold for that. She should wear a real coat. 

"Hi," she greets me. "I'm glad you're home now. Where have you been?" 

"Running errands," I lie. 

"Oh. You've been gone a long time," Anna says. She smiles. "I almost missed you. Kristy sent me over for you. Mary Anne got her license today and she's taking us for a drive. Or, well, according to Kristy, she's going to drive us up and down Burnt Hill Road at fifteen miles per hour. Then, we're taking Kristy's new Jeep downtown to celebrate at Thelma's Cafe. Kristy wants you to come. Are you ready now?" 

I bite my lip. "Um...you know, I just got home..." I say, hesitantly. "Is Abby going?" I ask. 

"No. She said she has something to do at Greer's house." 

"Did Mary Anne say I could come?" 

Anna knits her dark eyebrows together. "Gee...I don't know. Kristy just said to come get you. Mary Anne didn't exactly personally invite me either. Kristy did. Why would Mary Anne care? It's going to be me and Kristy and Mary Anne and her friend, Katie Shea. You probably don't know Katie. She's okay. Kind of bossy. I think Mary Anne's car may only seat four, but it's all right. Kristy's tiny and unless she's gained fifty or so pounds since I last saw her, so is Katie. We'll all fit." 

"Um...I'm really tired, Anna. It's been a long morning. I'd like to stay home," I tell her. I know Mary Anne doesn't want me along. Abby knows it, too. "Thanks for the invitation." 

Anna frowns. "Is this...is this because you're still mad at me?" she asks. 

"No! I'm not mad at you. I'm just tired, that's all. Tell Kristy. She'll understand." 

"Oh...okay then," Anna says with hesitation. I've disappointed her. 

I'm sick of disappointing people. I'm sick of being disappointed myself. "Maybe you'll come over later though," I suggest. We have to start somewhere. "I'm all alone in the house. It would be nice to have some company this evening. You can bring Kristy. You can even bring Mary Anne if she wants to come." 

Anna nods. She appears satisfied. "Okay. That sounds good. We'll stop by. Or at least I will, for sure. Take a nap or something. You do look tired, Shannon." Anna turns to start down the drive, but pauses and slowly turns back around. "Shannon?" 

"Yes?" 

"I meant to ask you the other day," she says and there's hesitation in her voice again. "Remember my sweater?" 

I nod. "The Shetland sweater? Of course." 

Anna hesitates a moment longer. "Do you think I can buy it back? I'd like my mother to see me wear it. I'll pay you back the hundred dollars, but it'll take me awhile." 

"You can have it," I tell her without any pause of consideration. I love the sweater, but to me, it is only a sweater. "You don't have to pay me back. You can just have it." 

"No. I'll pay you. Eventually." 

I know Anna won't relent. She is stubborn like me. "Pay me half," I offer. "Fifty. I've worn it a lot." 

Anna narrows her eyes, thoughtfully. "Maybe," she replies. "I'll think about it." Then she turns with a wave and heads down the drive and across the street. I watch her cross Kristy's yard until she disappears through the front door. 


	69. Chapter 69

Abby's next door with the Papadakis kids on Saturday afternoon, building a snow fort on their front lawn. I see them from my dining room window while I'm struggling to figure out how to work the hose attachment on the vacuum. I called Kristy for assistance, but she and her family already left to take Karen and Andrew to the airport. Then I called Mrs. Bryar, but she didn't answer her phone. So, now I'm attempting to figure it out on my own and it's simply not working. Frustrated, I toss down the hose and the brush attachment and kick both under the hutch. I'll deal with them some other time. That out of the way, temporarily at least, I go stand at the window and watch Abby with the Papadakis kids. They're laughing and hurling snowballs at each other and Sari's running around, shrieking with her arms in the air. She trips over her own feet and lands face first into the fort. 

I try to recall the last time I spoke to Abby. I don't remember. Nor do I remember the last words I spoke. Surely, I said something rude. 

In the hall closet, I find an old gray trench coat of Mom's and slip it on, pulling the belt tight around me. I also find a stray scarf draped over a hanger and wrap that around my neck, then I hurry out into the cold afternoon air. 

"What's going on?" I call out, crossing from my yard into the Papadakises. 

Abby's seated in the center of the smashed snow fort with Hannie, rebuilding their arsenal of snowballs. Linny and Sari are nowhere in sight. 

"Oh, hey, Shannon," Abby greets me. "We're having a snowball war. I was bringing up the trash can and saw the kids out here making a woeful attempt at building a fort. I had to come over and show them the correct way." 

"That isn't exactly how it happened," Hannie informs her. 

"Hush now," Abby scolds. 

"So..." I begin, awkwardly. "How was the Hamptons?" 

"Anti-climatic," Abby replies. 

"Where's Anna?" 

Abby shrugs. "I don't know. Well, she and Mom went to synagogue earlier. Anna's really into that these days. I think they were going to Bellair's afterward. I'm not sure what's taking so long." 

"So...Anna and your mom...?" 

Abby shrugs again. "We're all works in progress, I guess," she says. She turns to Hannie. "Will you go find Linny and Sari? They promised me cupcakes and I want to know what's taking so long." 

We watch Hannie hop up and run through the snow, then step more cautiously onto the porch. 

"I'm sorry for how I've treated you," I tell Abby when Hannie's inside the house. 

Abby looks up at me. "It's okay. I deserved it. In some ways at least. I was stupid. I'm sorry about stealing your papers. I was a terrible friend." 

"So was I. I guess we're even then." 

Abby grins. "Yeah, I guess we are," she agrees and holds out her hand so I'll help pull her to her feet. I take the offered hand and help her up. She brushes the snow off her jeans. Her legs and rear are soaked through. "Maybe seventeen is all about being stupid," Abby suggests. 

"If that's true, March seventeenth can't come soon enough." 

Abby laughs. "Well, I was pretty stupid at sixteen, too. It's been a crazy year." 

"Yeah," I agree, softly. I'm not sure "crazy" is the word I'd give it. Disappointing. Sad. Hurtful. Regretful. Any and all apply. "I'm sorry, too," I tell Abby, "that I didn't listen to you about Mary Anne. You were right, I think." 

Abby frowns. "Yeah...maybe," she says, slowly, a bit doubtfully. "I don't know. I mean, she didn't want anyone to know. Maybe it wasn't our place to force that on her. It has to be her decision. I don't know." 

"Have you talked to her?" 

"She wants me to stay away from her." 

"Me too." 

"She's embarrassed." 

"I understand." 

"I guess I do, too." 

The Papadakis kids come out of their house carrying a plate of Abby's promised cupcakes, interrupting our conversation. They're eager to restart the building of their fort, even though they look cold, wet, and tired. Abby must be freezing in her soaked jeans and sweatshirt, but she shoves an entire cupcake in her mouth and sets back to work, packing snow into blocks. I watch a couple minutes, nibbling on a cupcake and thinking. 

"I have to go," I announce. "I'll see you later." 

Abby looks up and smiles. "Okay. Bye, Shannon." 

"Bye, Abby." 

I wave goodbye to the Papadakis kids who've retrieved Noodle the Poodle from somewhere and are in the process of transforming him into a snow-covered guard for the fort. Inside my house, I hang up Mom's coat and the scarf, then rush up to my bedroom. I change out of my jeans and long-sleeved shirt and into a pair of tan slacks and a light blue blouse. I get my coat and put on the scarf Maria gave me for Christmas. I stuff the matching gloves into my coat pocket, then grab my purse and go back downstairs. 

I'm not exactly sure why I decided to drive to Mary Anne's. I told Abby the truth. I understand why Mary Anne wishes to avoid me. I know I should respect that decision. And after today, I think I will. But there's something about unfinished business, so much of it presses on me these days. It's almost like I have a checklist, squaring my accounts, settling my debts. Putting my life back in order. It's like when people know they're about to die, or contemplate suicide. Maybe that's what this is - the suicide of Shannon, so she may start anew. 

Whatever it is, it's important that it get done. 

Mary Anne's cat, Tigger, sits in one of the front windows of her house. The blinds are raised halfway, giving him plenty of room to sit, cleaning his face and paws. He pauses when he sees me coming up the walk, eyes me suspiciously, and then without another thought, resumes his grooming. Cats are odd creatures. But at least Tigger isn't demonic like other cats I've known. 

I ring the doorbell and wait. I know Mary Anne is home, or at least someone is. There are lights on inside and the faint hum of the radio drifts out through the window where Tigger sits. The window's open a few inches. Maybe Tigger enjoys the fresh air. I ring the doorbell again and before it's finished with its chimes, hear the approach of footsteps. The footsteps come to a halt on the other side of the door. For several seconds there's nothing but silence. Mary Anne must be looking at me through the peephole. She must be deciding whether or not to answer. 

She answers. 

"Hi, Shannon," she greets me. Her voice isn't cold. It's neutral, unreadable. 

"Hey, Mary Anne. May I come in?" 

Mary Anne hesitates only a second, then holds the door open. "Sure," she says and steps aside. 

I come into the foyer and begin unbuttoning my coat. I glance around, in through the living room, and up the stairs. Everything looks the same. It feels different though, still sort of charged with the tension and fury of that night. I wonder how Mary Anne stands it. She must feel it, too, feel it all the time. 

"Want me to hang up your coat?" Mary Anne offers. She's resigned to the fact that I am here and I am staying. She's probably been expecting me. 

"I'll just leave it here," I answer and lay the coat over the staircase banister along with my scarf. "Something smells good," I remark, sniffing the air. 

"I'm baking cranberry-raisin bread," Mary Anne tells me. "Come on this way. I've been working in the kitchen." Mary Anne walks away without waiting for me. 

I follow several steps behind her, pausing momentarily outside the living room. It's in perfect order, spotlessly clean. Spotlessly clean like the couch. I managed to scrub out all the blood that night. It wasn't hard. It came out almost effortlessly. Surprising, it was. 

Mary Anne leads me into the kitchen. The air is thick and warm with the scent of baking bread. The room smells homey and welcoming. It smells normal. And Mary Anne looks normal, too, in jeans and a pale pink t-shirt with a gray tiger-striped kitten on the front. Her hair's in loose pigtails and tied with white ribbons. She looks like Mary Anne, the Mary Anne I've known since we were thirteen. I've never known her well, I've hardly known her at all these past three years, but after all this time she seems unchanged. The things that lurk beneath our surfaces are unexpected and unsettling, our secrets and our true selves. 

"Do you want something to drink?" Mary Anne asks me. She goes over to the oven and cracks it open, peering inside. 

"No thanks," I answer, coming to stand near the kitchen table. I'm uncertain whether I should sit or stand. The table is crowded with Mary Anne's things, several balls of yarn and knitting needles and a half-finished hat in muted grays and vibrant blues. There's also a tablet of plain white paper, the top page filled with neat cursive in black ink. The pen lays uncapped beside the tablet along with a small pile of crumpled papers. "What are you doing?" I ask. 

Mary Anne's lifting her bread out of the oven. She turns her head momentarily. "Oh...well, I'm working on that hat sometimes," she answers and sets the pan down on the stove. "And then, sometimes I'm working on this letter. I'm writing it to my friend Emily's parents." 

"Oh...your friend who died. I'm sorry about that." 

Mary Anne is expressionless a moment. "Thanks," she finally says. She looks uncomfortable, not knowing if she said the right thing. She looks at me for another paused moment, then comes over to the table and stands behind her chair. "I went to see them a couple days ago, but they weren't seeing anyone at the time. So, I thought I'd write them a letter about how sorry I am. Maybe it's silly. I don't know." Mary Anne pauses again and frowns. "I actually got the idea from Dawn. When I was over there, at Emily's house, I saw a letter from Dawn sitting on the table in the foyer on top of all their other mail. It hadn't been opened. I checked. Anyway, it gave me the idea. Maybe I'm being petty and doing it only because Dawn did it first." Mary Anne turns around and crosses to the sink. She picks up a neon green plastic cup and fills it with water. 

"How is Dawn?" I ask. I never hear her name it seems. No one hardly ever talks about her. 

"I don't know," Mary Anne answers. "I haven't spoken to her since the end of the summer. I don't think she'll come back to Stoneybrook again. There's nothing for her here anymore." Mary Anne takes a gulp of water, then turns back around to face me. "Sharon says Dawn doesn't feel welcome in this house anymore. Dawn doesn't get along with me or Dad. We're all to blame, I guess. None of us have tried very hard. Anyway, Dawn's avoiding us now - me and Dad. That's what Sharon tells us. She's really angry about it, like we purposely drove Dawn away. Or, well...maybe I did." Mary Anne frowns again. She sets her cup back down beside the sink. She stares at it. "But I don't think we're the only ones Dawn's avoiding. Well, she doesn't have to worry about avoiding Emily anymore. Maybe Emily's parents. They aren't very forgiving." Mary Anne walks back over to the table. She flips the cover down on her tablet. 

As usual, I'm completely mystified as to what she's talking about. 

"I still don't want to talk about it," Mary Anne informs me. 

I furrow my brow. "About Dawn?" I ask, perplexed. She's already said quite a bit. 

"No. I don't want to talk about...about Mr. Marshall. Isn't that why you're here?" 

"Yes." 

"Save your breath then because I don't want to talk about him. You're almost as persistent as Abby." 

I don't care what she says, I plunge on. "I think we were wrong," I tell her. "Or at least, I was. You weren't thinking clearly. I was selfish that night, Mary Anne. I wasn't one-hundred percent considering what was best for you. I think we should have listened to Abby. I think that, for once, Abby was right." 

Mary Anne sets her mouth in a deep frown. She watches me, dark eyes flat and emotionless. Her eyes give her away. Her eyes reveal that somewhere she is altered, not the same Mary Anne. "Maybe," she finally says. Her expression softens a bit. She doesn't look upset. Instead, she looks sad and almost regretful. It flickers, briefly, several times, coming back and going away. "Maybe," she repeats. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't hung up on the Blumes. Sometimes I wish I let Abby call her mom. And a lot of the time, I'm glad no one knows. I'm glad it's a secret. And I'm glad you and Abby are keeping it for me." 

"It isn't too late," I tell her. "You should at least tell your dad." 

"No." 

"But Mary Anne - " 

"You just don't understand," she interrupts me. "You don't. You can't. It's easy for you to stand there and dole out advice. Advice that doesn't affect you. Not really. It's embarrassing, okay? I don't want anyone else to know." Mary Anne pauses and her eyes flicker again. "I should have seen it coming. They warned me. I didn't listen." 

"What?" 

"It doesn't matter," Mary Anne replies and turns away. She checks her bread, touching a finger to the top of the loaf. Then she touches the side of the pan very quickly. It's still hot. "I hope you'll respect my decision, Shannon. This is what I want. I want to forget about it. I want it to just go away." 

I study her, standing at her stove in her kitten t-shirt and loose pigtails. She looks so small and young, much too young to be dealing with such a secret, burying it away for keeps. 

"It won't just go away," I tell her. And it won't. I know. 

"We'll see," she replies. 

I nod. It is her decision. "Okay, Mary Anne. It's your choice, your secret. It's your life." 

"Thank you," Mary Anne says. "I knew you would understand. It's kind of the same for us, isn't it? I don't want anyone to know about me, you don't want anyone to know about you. And there's always the risk that we'll be discovered and our dirty laundry aired for all to see. Stains on our clothes, stains on ourselves. We're marked for life." 

"We aren't really the same, Mary Anne. I made a choice. You didn't. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I do. I'm a liar and a..." I don't finish. Mary Anne doesn't know all the things I am, all the things I've done. And she is right. Those are my stains, my stains to carry on the inside for all my life, hoping for them to never be seen, to never come through on my skin, visible to all the world. Perhaps, we are alike in that fear, the fear of discovery and shame, deserved or not. 

"It doesn't matter," Mary Anne says. "That's how I feel." She slides open a drawer and removes a box of aluminum foil. She tears off a long piece and covers her bread. "Please don't bring it up again. I know you mean well, Shannon, but this is the end, as far as I'm concerned. We're burying it right here and now. Don't come around digging it up again, please." "Okay," I reply, nodding. Maybe she's wrong, maybe this isn't the best way, maybe she's only making things worse for herself. But she's right about one thing - I understand. I understand the desire to forget and walk away, waiting for the bad to fade into the distance and the next beginning to be born. 

"I have to start getting ready," Mary Anne informs me, giving me the sense that I'm being dismissed. "Sharon's parents invited me to this potluck at their church. They go to First Methodist. Grandma Baker, Dad, and I, we go to Cherry Valley Presbyterian. That is, when Dad and I go to church. But Granny and Pop-Pop - those are Sharon's parents - want me to come with them tonight. I guess it's a grandparent thing, showing off the granddaughter. They like to show off Dawn when she's here. Of course, they know I'm not Dawn and they're okay with that." Mary Anne pauses and cocks her head to the side, ever so slightly, appearing thoughtful and kind of sad. Whatever she's thinking, she doesn't speak it. Instead, she shakes it off. The look disappears. "Anyway, I need to change and then call them to pick me up. Dad won't allow me to drive at night yet and it'll be dark when the potluck's over." 

"Do you want me to drive you over?" I offer. 

"No, it's okay." 

"I'm going that way." 

Mary Anne hesitates. "All right," she finally answers. "Thank you. Just give me a few minutes to change clothes." Mary Anne scoops up her tablet and the crumpled papers and sweeps briskly out of the kitchen. I hear her pound up the stairs. 

Mary Anne reappears less than five minutes later. She looks much different than before. She's changed into a red suede skirt and a black scoop-neck sweater and low black heels. Her ribbons have changed to black and red. It's almost as if she's aged three years in the few minutes that lapsed between her exit and re-entrance. Like she stepped through a time warp and came out older and wiser. How we change, going back and moving forward. We're so in-between, not adults and no longer children. We fall somewhere in the middle. In limbo. 

"I like your skirt," I tell Mary Anne. 

"Stacey bought it for me," she replies. She speaks Stacey's name casually without its hardened edge. How things change, indeed. Swift and rapid. 

"For Christmas?" 

"No. A while ago," Mary Anne answers and picks up her bread off the stove. "Are you ready?" she asks. 

"Sure." 

In the car, it seems we've talked ourselves out. We no longer have much to say. It's too bad, I think. Mary Anne and I could have been friends. Maybe not close friends or good friends, but friends nonetheless. I don't see how that's possible now. I'll always know her secret and she'll always know I know. Things could have been different. Maybe if I'd listened to Abby. Or even not. Maybe if I'd just been kinder before when Mary Anne wanted to be my friend. I pushed her away and slammed the door in her face. I ruined things for myself, like I ruined so many things. Some things are ruined forever, damaged beyond repair, never to be mended. It is a truth of life and I am learning that. 

"Are you going to Shadow Lake?" Mary Anne asks, speaking for the first time since we left Burnt Hill Road. We've just turned into the Bainbridge Estates and are winding our way to Bertrand Drive. Mary Anne points out the turns to me. 

"No," I answer, stopping for a kid skateboarding in the middle of the street. "I don't feel like skiing and ice skating. I don't know if the strenuous activity is all right for me yet." Mary Anne looks at me funny. Of course she does. She doesn't know about the abortion. She'll never know. But it's always on my mind, creeping in the corners like a shadow waiting to cast over me. 

"Abby's going, you know," I point out. 

"I know," Mary Anne replies and picks a piece of fuzz off the end of her left pigtail. "But Kristy will be there. And Elizabeth and Nannie and Anna and that Amanda girl. Kristy said Greer's going now, too." 

I didn't know that. 

I bite my lip and make the turn onto Bertrand. I'll really be all alone then. Trapped in my house, trapped in Stoneybrook. Sally will be around, I suppose, unless Kristy loses her mind and invites Sally to Shadow Lake, too. Or more likely, Sally invites herself. And what will I do? 

"I'm not ready for a ski vacation," I say, aloud. I'm unsure if I meant to speak that out loud. 

Mary Anne gives me another funny look. I don't quite see how she's ready for a ski vacation either. But then, maybe it's another way to throw more dirt on her secret and continue her charade of everything is fine, everything is okay. 

I pull alongside the curb between Sharon's parents' house and the Gates' house. Mary Anne glances over at me, settles her eyes on me a second, then turns them away again. She unlatches her belt and opens the door. 

"Thanks for the ride, Shannon," she says and climbs out of the car. She leans back in to get her bread off the floor. 

"You're welcome. Have fun at Shadow Lake." 

"I will," Mary Anne says. She hesitates. "See you around, I guess." 

There's an awkward pause. 

"See you around," I reply. 

Mary Anne shuts the door. I watch her walk up the driveway and climb the porch steps. The front door opens before Mary Anne reaches it. Mary Anne steps through and the door closes behind her. 

And I am sorry we're not friends. 

I unlatch my own seatbelt and get out of the car. I step carefully along the sidewalk, cautious of the snow, headed toward Janet's house. It is a day for unfinished business after all. I already dived in headfirst. I might as well go farther, deeper. Janet's front walk has been shoveled, so I pick up my pace, less cautious. I rap loudly on the front door, then press the doorbell. The chime is shockingly loud and reverberates in the cold, silent air, setting off the dogs next door and across the street. 

Dr. Gates answers the door and immediately shouts for the dogs to shut up. The dogs don't listen, of course. They only bark louder. 

"Sorry," I apologize as I step into the foyer. 

Dr. Gates looks slightly annoyed, but directs me into the living room, where I already hear Janet's voice. I follow its sound. Janet's in the living room with Amy, both seated on the carpet, building a tower of brightly colored blocks. Janet's carrying on a one-sided conversation with Amy, who appears much more interested in her blocks than anything Janet has to say. Of course, she's barely two years old. 

"Hello," I say, loudly from underneath the archway. 

Janet glances up. "Oh, hello," she replies in a neutral tone. "Did you ring the doorbell? Don't do that again. Dad keeps disconnecting it, but Grandpa just connects it again. I told you those idiot dogs are annoying." 

"If it's like that all the time, I don't know how you can stand it," I comment and come further into the living room. 

"Yeah, I know," Janet agrees. "This neighborhood sucks. The dogs are bad enough, but everyone on this block is old and cranky. The Porters are all right. I just want to shoot their dogs. Everyone else, though, is a bunch of crotchety old men and - " Janet reaches out and covers Amy's ears, "bitchy old widows. Mr. Cormack next door is always throwing tree branches and blowing leaves in our yard. He's the worst, but there's still Mr. Jessup and Mrs. Weller and Mrs. McCracken and Mr. Simon. But I guess you didn't come over to discuss my neighbors." 

"Not really." 

Janet waits for me to say more, but I don't, so she yells, "Daaaad! Come get Amy!" 

Dr. Gates appears and scoops Amy up from the floor. He doesn't say anything. Amy waves to us as she's carried off. 

When they're gone, Janet folds her legs indian-style and stares at me. "Are you just going to stand there?" she asks. 

I come around and perch on the edge of the couch, setting my purse on the cushion beside me and peeling off my coat. Janet continues to stare at me with those buggy eyes of hers, drumming her hands on her knees, expression blank. I never know what she's thinking. She's so unreadable. 

"I just dropped Mary Anne off next door," I start, folding my hands, primly, in my lap, "and thought I'd come over. I just wanted to say, Janet, that I'm sorry for telling Elizabeth about what you told Sam. Or rather, I pointed her in the right direction. I'm sure she asked you about it." 

"She did." 

"Well...I'm sorry for not keeping it a secret." 

Janet shrugs. "That's okay. It doesn't matter. Elizabeth wasn't mad. Mad at Sam, yes, but not mad at me. It's okay now." 

Well, that was easy. 

"So...you and Elizabeth..." 

Janet shrugs again and combs her fingers back through her dark hair. "We won't ever be friends, I don't think," Janet replies. "We argue too much. But she's sorry for how she's treated me. That's enough." 

"Elizabeth isn't so bad." 

"Sometimes," Janet says and there's a small, rare smile on her lips. It makes her look much different. She doesn't seem so old. "Of course," she says, "I hope you don't expect me to apologize for tattling on you to Elizabeth. I don't regret that." 

I think that, perhaps, Janet was destined to join the Thomas-Brewer family. 

"No...I understand," I reply. "Wes was going to find out someday. Maybe you did me a favor." 

"I did." 

Yes. Definitely destined. 

"So...about Sam - " 

"Don't mention his name," Janet snaps. 

"Sorry," I mutter and cross my legs. I think a moment. I can't contain myself. "So...about Charlie..." 

Janet frowns. "What about Charlie?" she asks. 

"Is there something going on between you and Charlie?" 

Janet's frown transforms into a scowl. "No!" she cries. "Charlie's a jerk!" 

It's my turn to frown. There's something more, settled beneath the surface. Whatever it is, I may never know. Janet isn't telling. We don't always get the answers we desire. 

"Anything else?" Janet asks. Her tone is still guarded and testy. I've struck some kind of nerve. 

"No," I reply, simply. "I think I've taken care of everything." 


	70. Chapter 70

Mrs. Bryar comes over on Sunday around eleven to teach me how to properly run a household. I have found I am woefully inept. I've managed to dust all the furniture, mop the floors and somewhat clean the bathrooms. However, I still can't work the dishwasher, vacuum, or despite Kristy's earlier demonstration, the washer and dryer. And there's at least a dozen other things I've forgotten. And at least a dozen more I haven't even realized. 

Mom and Dad aren't home, of course. I'm alone, as is usual these days, but I'm getting used to it. It isn't any less lonely though. 

When Mrs. Bryar arrives, we start in the laundry room. I've brought down all of Tiffany's, Maria's, and my laundry, as well as the sheets I stripped from our beds. Until the other day when Kristy helped wash some of my clothes, I hadn't thought to wonder who'd been doing our laundry since Mrs. Bryar quit. I suppose it was Maria. I never even noticed. 

"We'll start with the whites," Mrs. Bryar informs me. She's leaning against the dryer on which she's set a pad of lined paper. She prints _WHITES_ in bold capital letters and begins writing out bullet point instructions while I separate the white clothes from the colored and toss them into the washing machine. When I finish, Mrs. Bryar looks up from the pad and opens the cabinet above her head. She removes the laundry detergent and fabric softener. "Fill the detergent cap to the - " Mrs. Bryar peers into the washing machine, "first line and pour it in here. Then pour the fabric softener in here. Be careful not to mix the two up." 

"What will happen if I do?" 

"I don't know. Nothing good, I suppose." 

I close the lid on the washing machine and Mrs. Bryar shows me which dials to turn to which settings. I wait for her to write out the instructions for colored clothes and towels, then we move into the kitchen. I've been washing the dishes by hand, but haven't been keeping up on it very well. 

"This is a lot of work," I remark, as I load the glasses onto the top rack of the dishwasher. "And a lot to remember." 

"You'll learn," Mrs. Bryar replies. She's writing on the pad again, but stops every few words to watch my progress and occasionally correct where I've placed something. "It's good that you're learning now. You'll have to take care of yourself next year when you're away at college. You'll have to do your own laundry and clean up after yourself. And someday, you'll have your own apartment or house and will need to know all these things." 

I glance up at her. "I'm worried that I won't get into Wellesley," I admit. It's a worry that's been on my mind a lot lately. I haven't been the most diligent student this semester. I didn't make up all my assignments and scored low on several tests and quizzes. Finals aren't until the end of January, but there's no way I'll make straight A's like usual. I won't be third in the class any longer. That rank will go to someone else. Probably to Kristy. 

"You'll get in somewhere else then," Mrs. Bryar says, simply. 

"That's true," I say, slowly. 

"Don't worry over it too much. There isn't anything you can do about it now." 

I nod and finish loading the glasses. She's right. There's nothing left to do but wait. Wait and try harder from now on. Make the effort I used to make. I nod again and push in the top rack and pull out the bottom. I begin arranging the pots and bowls. "Thank you for coming over to help me," I tell Mrs. Bryar. 

"You're welcome," Mrs. Bryar replies. 

"I really do appreciate it. I know you have a life of your own," I say and I do realize that now. Mrs. Bryar does not exist to serve my needs. 

"Yes, but I have time for you," she says. "I'm happy to help. I think it's important for teenagers to know how to take care of themselves. Someone won't always be around to do everything for you. Well, you know that now." Mrs. Bryar smiles sort of sadly at me, then resumes her writing. "It is good for you to learn though. I don't think children should be catered to, whether by housekeepers or their own mothers. There's a difference between loving your child and spoiling her rotten." Mrs. Bryar pauses. "Oh, well, that's unkind of me. It's easy for me to judge when I don't have any children. All right, Shannon, the dishwashing liquid is under the sink. I think you can figure out where it goes." 

When the dishwasher kicks on, Mrs. Bryar takes down some of Mom's old cookbooks and we flip through them together. She points out simple recipes that even I can make, as incompetent as I may be in the kitchen. I keep the casserole cookbook out on the counter. Casseroles are easy. Even I can make one, I think. Next Mrs. Bryar demonstrates how to vacuum, both the carpet and the tile. She shows me how to screw on the hose attachments and change the vacuum bag. She writes out all these instructions as well. I'm uncertain how many pages she has so far. My head sort of swims in a dizzy fog. 

"You'll catch on," Mrs. Bryar assures me as we head upstairs. "And your mother will have to hire a new housekeeper at some point. This house is too big for you to care for on your own. I doubt Tiffany will be much help." 

"Maybe you could come back," I suggest, hopefully. 

Mrs. Bryar pauses halfway up the stairs. She glances back at me. "No. I won't work for your family again," she tells me. She continues up the stairs with me trailing, a tad slower than before, behind her. 

Mrs. Bryar stops at the linen closet and removes three sets of sheets, which she pushes into my arms. Then she leads me into Maria's bedroom. Together, we shake out the fitted sheet which is a pale pink flannel with a bright red strawberry-print. I stare at the sheet, sadly, wondering if Maria will ever sleep on her clean sheets. 

"What are your plans for New Year's?" Mrs. Bryar asks as we make Maria's bed. I wonder if she's thinking the same as me. 

"Oh, it is New Year's, isn't it?" I reply. Tonight is the start of a new year. I'd forgotten. "I don't have any plans." 

"Me either," Mrs. Bryar says and tosses me a pillowcase. 

"Isn't your boyfriend in town?" 

"Yes. He is," she replies and pulls Maria's comforter up over the bed. She smoothes it carefully into place. "But we don't have plans. Not really. I'm meeting him at his brother's house when I'm done here, but no plans for tonight. I'm much too old to stay up until midnight." 

"You aren't that old." 

Mrs. Bryar laughs. "Thank you," she says. "Not _that_ old." 

I blush. "I mean..." 

"I know what you mean." 

I scoop up the other sheets and follow Mrs. Bryar into Tiffany's room. Tiffany's sheets are plain lime green flannel. I know she'll sleep on them. In a week, she'll be home and in her own bed. That is for sure. I miss her, her and Maria. I'm thankful that I'll at least get Tiffany back. At least for awhile. Maybe longer. 

"How long have you been with your boyfriend?" I ask Mrs. Bryar as I yank down a corner of the fitted sheet over Tiffany's mattress. I am making a conscious effort to not take up all the space in the room. It is not solely mine. I realize that now. 

Mrs. Bryar has her head down. "Oh...eleven months?" she replies, uncertainly. "Almost a year, I guess." 

"Maybe you'll marry him," I suggest. 

"I don't know about that," Mrs. Bryar says with a laugh. "I think the first time cured me forever." She laughs again. 

"That was a long time ago," I point out. 

"Yes. It was," she agrees. She pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful. "The first time was a mistake. I got married for the wrong reasons and paid for my foolishness. But still, I don't know if I want to ever get married again. Malcolm is a very nice man. He's the nicest man I've ever been with. We don't have to get married though. Marriage isn't an answer or a solution, Shannon. I told you that." 

I nod. 

"Besides, his family doesn't like me much. At least his parents don't." 

"Why not? You're very nice." 

Mrs. Bryar smiles. "Thank you, Shannon," she says and sounds quite pleased. "But Malcolm's parents don't think I'm good enough for him. They call me 'the cleaning lady' when they think I'm out of earshot. And then...someone at their synagogue who knew me when I was younger told them some things about me, things that shouldn't matter now. I'm not like I was thirty years ago. Those things don't matter to Malcolm and that's really all that counts." Mrs. Bryar pauses, not appearing completely convinced by what she's said. "You have to remember, Shannon," she tells me, "that sometimes the past gets dragged up again. It can come back to haunt you, even when you feel it should no longer matter. The unfortunate truth is that someone, somewhere will always care. You shouldn't worry too much or dwell on it, but just remember it's always a possibility." 

I stare down at Tiffany's newly made bed and smooth a wrinkle out of the corner of the comforter. It hadn't occurred to me that everything from this autumn would not stay securely planted there, a stretch of time nestled in the past. It will be with me and affect me and weigh on me the rest of my life. I know that. I knew that. But it didn't occur to me that everything may kick up again like dust into the air and settle over my life in a cloud of secrecy and regret. In the near future, in the distant future, at any time. Nothing is ever truly buried. There is no hole and no will deep enough. Memories fade, but nothing ever disappears completely. All these things I've done, all these mistakes I've made and secrets I've kept are out there in the world, floating through the consciousness of many. Bits and pieces of my life held in the hands of others - people who know me well, people who don't know me at all. And any of them can send me spinning at any time, at any moment. It could be next week, next year, or thirty years from now. 

I may be Mrs. Bryar's age, living a life set on course by the events of this year. I may be happy, I may be not. I may be a million things, anything, and then the past rises up again, setting me off-balance, exposing the mistakes I once made. Will it matter? Will people care? Will I still care? Questions without answers. Questions that may never come with answers. I think that now, in this instant, I understand Lindsey and Mary Anne. I have been so focused on my present, the shambles of my current life, that I have not looked too far into the future. Lindsey and Mary Anne have looked ahead. They've realized what I've only begun to realize and have seen what I now see. A hazy, uncertain future. A future marked by secrets, secrets that may not stay buried, secrets that may sneak out at any time. A fear of the unknown lingers before us all, but it's deeper for some. Some of us have more at risk, more to lose. 

"Are you all right?" Mrs. Bryar asks me. 

I realize I'm standing with my hand frozen over the comforter, hovering there in thought. "I'm fine," I say and it's sort of strangled. I clear my throat. "I'm fine." 

"I didn't mean to upset you," Mrs. Bryar apologizes. "Perhaps, I shouldn't have said anything." 

"No, it's okay. I should have figured it out on my own. I mean, yes, obviously, other people could still find out about me and Wes," I reply and bite my lip. I don't cry. I need to accept what I've done and accept the consequences, those that have come and those that may come. "People could still find out," I repeat. "I should be prepared." 

"And maybe there is no reason to worry," Mrs. Bryar reminds me. 

I nod. "Maybe." 

Mrs. Bryar and I go across the hall and make my bed. Then she demonstrates how to clean the windows and mirrors without leaving streaks. I try, but leave behind streaks anyway. Mrs. Bryar assures me it's not a big deal. I'll learn, she promises. I'm learning a lot these days. Afterward, we walk through the house and Mrs. Bryar points out little things I should be aware of. She writes everything down for me. I'm not sure if she's simply very organized and efficient or if she worries that perhaps I still don't listen too well. 

"You look much better," Mrs. Bryar tells me when we're finished. She tears all the pages from her pad and hands them over to me. "You look more like your old self. You act more like it, too." 

I smile and slip the pages into my household daybook. "Thanks. I feel better. Most of the time at least. I'm not sure I'll ever feel completely normal again," I admit. "I'm not my old self, really. I've changed." 

Mrs. Bryar smiles as she slips her arms into the sleeves of her coat. "Change can be good. As long as you change for the better. I think you're learning from your mistakes, Shannon. You'll be all right." 

I'll be all right. 

"I hope so," I reply and return her smile. "You look very nice, by the way." She's wearing a white and black dress with black high heels. I've never seen Mrs. Bryar in a dress before. Or heels. It isn't as unsettling as I would have thought. 

Mrs. Bryar's smile widens. "Thank you, Shannon. It's sweet of you to say so." 

"You're welcome. I'll walk you out." 

"All right." 

Yesterday's snow disappeared overnight. Now the day is simply gray and overcast. The sun tries to peek through the clouds, but without success. There's an icy chill in the air. I wrap my arms around myself, around the orange sweater Tiffany gave me. Despite the cold, the breeze feels refreshing. 

"You're a lot different than I thought," I tell Mrs. Bryar as we go down the front steps. 

Mrs. Bryar laughs. "Really?" 

"Yes, but not in a bad way. It's too bad you don't have any children. You would have been a good mom." 

"Oh, well, I would have liked children," Mrs. Bryar replies. "But we don't get everything we want in life." 

I nod. I'm realizing that. 

We stop beside Mrs. Bryar's car. "Thank you for coming over, Mrs. Bryar. You've been a big help. Not just today either." 

Mrs. Bryar smiles. "You're welcome, Shannon. Just let me know if you need anything else." 

I return her smile. "I will, Mrs. Bryar." 

"Oh, well, I suppose you can start calling me Tracey, if you like." 

"I don't know if I can do that," I say, giggling. 

"Oh, well, Mrs. Bryar is fine then." 

"At least until you get married," I point out. 

"Oh, yes, until then!" Mrs. Bryar laughs. She unlocks her door and waves. "I'll see you later, Shannon." 

"Happy New Year," I call out and start to walk away. I turn back and wave. 

When I return to the house, I go into the kitchen and make a late lunch. I stand at the counter, nibbling on my ham and swiss sandwich while flipping through the pages of the casserole cookbook. I find a recipe on page forty-nine for a beef and rice casserole. It looks simple. It looks like something even I could make. Still eating my sandwich, I begin wandering around the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients. I'm lifting a can of tomato soup out of the pantry when Mom storms in through the laundry room. She's dressed in a low-cut eggplant purple suit, but isn't wearing her coat. She comes to an abrupt halt in the doorway. She raises her arms and grips each side of the door frame, eyes flashing, face twisted, absolutely livid. 

"Why didn't you tell me," she bellows, "that it was the Ellenburg boy who knocked you up?" 

I drop the can of tomato soup. 

And my sandwich. 

I stare at Mom, open mouthed. She continues to glower at me, nostrils flaring. 

"Who told you?" I finally gasp. 

Mom drops her arms and strolls into the kitchen, a queer smile on her lips. "His mother," she replies, the smile turning tighter. 

"She _told_ you?" I cry. 

"Yes. She did!" Mom exclaims. "And I must say, Shannon, it was the highlight of my day. A terrific topper to the end of a terrific year!" Mom says, sarcastically. "There I am, sitting in my office, trying to do my work and I look up and here comes Molly Ellenburg marching through the entrance. I'd never actually met her before, but of course, I knew who she was. And she marches straight through reception and charges right into my office and orders me to hang up the phone. And then she sits down and informs me that her son knocked you up!" Mom pauses for a moment that seems to drag on an eternity. "Why didn't you _tell_ me, Shannon?" she demands. 

All I can do is shrug. 

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Mom asks, furiously. 

I nod. "I know, I know," I say and my voice breaks. "I lied to him. I know that he's a lot older and a teacher, but he really didn't know I'm in high school. I did lie and - " 

"I don't care about that," Mom cuts in. "Do you have any idea what you aborted?" Mom cries, gesturing to my stomach. "You aborted a fortune!" 

My jaw drops. "_What_?" I shout. 

"Do you have any idea how much that baby was worth? I'm not even talking about that stupid boat franchise. Who cares about Ellenburg Marine Supply? You bagged the last Stratten and he knocked you up. The last Stratten, Shannon! Do you realize how much money that boy will inherit when his bitch of a mother dies? Half of that could have been yours! And you aborted away your chance! You're as foolish as Tiffany! At least you're screwing the right men, but dammit, Shannon - " 

I don't know what she says next. 

She doesn't finish. 

Because I smack her hard across the face. 

"You're supposed to be my mother!" I scream at her as she stares at me, stunned, holding her cheek. "I didn't abort a fortune, I aborted my baby! It didn't come with a price tag! It wasn't leverage or collateral. It was Wes' and my baby! And you don't even care! You don't even care that I dated a teacher who's nine years older than me and that I lied to him and had sex with him and almost ruined his life. And my life, too. You don't care! And Mrs. Ellenburg isn't a bitch! She probably deserves to be one, but she isn't. The only bitch in this situation is you!" 

Mom raises her hand. It swipes down toward me. I catch it. I catch her wrist in my hand. 

"You aren't my mother," I tell her, coldly. "I don't know _who_ you are." 

Mom jerks her hand away. "Good," she replies, voice colder than my own. "You got what you wanted then. You got what you've wanted since you were thirteen years old." 

"That's just an excuse." 

"Is it?" Mom asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Aren't you the smart one? You always did know what's best for everyone. And now you're a self-righteous little bitch just like that Elizabeth Brewer, just like that Molly Ellenburg. You have no idea how relieved I was that today is Sunday and half the office was gone. Imagine, having that woman appear with a full audience? Apparently, she'd been trying to call for days. I guess I got lucky then. She really put me in my place. Certainly, she's very proud of herself right now." 

"You really don't get it, do you?" I ask Mom. I laugh, but not out of joy or amusement. It's sad. It's resigned. "And I'd rather be like Elizabeth or Mrs. Ellenburg than ever be like you." I turn and start to walk away. I am done here. I am done with my mother. 

"Just wait," Mom spits out. "You will be." 

I look over my shoulder. "No. I won't," I reply and I leave. 

From my bedroom, I listen to Mom stomp out of the house, the door to the garage slamming behind her. Then I listen to her car roar out of the garage, down the drive, and onto the street. And she disappears. Where does she go? Probably back to the office. Probably to an Open House. Important events. Priorities. I don't really care where she goes. After all, she doesn't care about me. 

But other people do and that's enough. It has to be. 

I sit down on my bed and smile, wondering exactly what Mrs. Ellenburg said to Mom. Whatever her words, they had no affect on Mom and she didn't listen, but that's not important. What's important is that Mrs. Ellenburg took the time to say whatever she had to say. And that's enough for me. 

I retrieve my phone from the desk and remove the white business card from the corkboard on the wall. I return to my bed and with the phone in my lap, dial the number written on the back. It rings twice before someone picks up. 

"Hello?" 

I recognize the voice. "Hello? Aunt Mira?" I reply. 

"Shannon? Hi!" she says, brightly. 

"Yes, it's me. How are you?" I ask, politely. 

"Me? I'm good. How are you?" 

"Oh...you know..." I answer. That isn't any kind of answer. "Do you have plans for New Year's?" I ask. 

"Yes! We're making lasagna for dinner and then the kids rented...well, I don't know what they rented. Probably terrible movies that Greg and I will hate. So, our plans are staying in. What are your plans?" 

"Oh...you know..." I answer again. I have no plans, of course. "So...Aunt Mira? I'm wondering if that invitation to visit is still good? I'd like to come out." 

"Yes! Of course it is," she tells me. "When would you like to come?" 

"Whenever. Soon." 

"I'll call the airline. Maybe I can get you a flight out tomorrow," Aunt Mira says. She actually sounds excited. 

"That would be wonderful. Thank you, Aunt Mira," I say. I pause a moment, unsure of what else to say. Is that enough? "Are Tiffany and Maria around?" I ask. 

"No. They're not, I'm sorry. Tiffany and the girls went to the mall to find Kate a dress for the formal. And Maria and Max went off with some of the neighborhood kids. I think they went ice skating." 

I sigh. "So, they're having a good time?" I ask. 

"Yes! And we're enjoying them very much. We'll be looking forward to having you, too." 

Should I feel disappointed? Is that selfish? I want Tiffany and Maria to have a good time, but then...and that is selfish. Tiffany and Maria deserve to be happy. I shouldn't deny them that. I shouldn't wish for anything else simply because it benefits me. 

Aunt Mira and I hang up. She'll call the airline and get me the earliest flight tomorrow. I sit awhile with the phone resting on my lap. I breathe. I breathe and feel relieved. Things are changing. Things are turning. For the better, I think. I hope. All I can do is hope. 

I put the phone back and retrieve my coat and scarf from the closet. I bundle up and head downstairs with my purse slung over my shoulder. I leave my house. I leave my house and lock it up. I lock up the silence and walk away. I'll be back and then I'll leave again. I'll leave for awhile at least. Maybe it won't fix anything, but then, maybe it will help. 

I hurry across the street to Kristy's house. Kristy's Jeep and Charlie's Pontiac and Janet's Honda are all parked in the drive. I climb up the steps and walk right in the front door the way I used to. The way I did not so long ago. David Michael's in the foyer pulling Emily Michelle and Amy in a red wagon. Shannon the dog is following behind, attempting to chew on the wheels. I hear Watson and Nannie's voices far away in the kitchen, loud and laughing. I hang my coat and scarf in the closet and leave to search for Kristy. Instead I find Elizabeth and Janet in the living room, hands on their hips, facing each other, arguing over the new placement of the couch. I actually laugh. 

"Hey! I tried to call you!" Kristy's voice exclaims behind me. 

I turn around. Kristy's coming down the stairs. She's wearing a yellow sweatshirt with a picture of Father Time and Baby New Year on it. A New Year's sweatshirt. Only Kristy. 

"I was on the phone with my aunt," I explain. "I'm going to Evanston for the rest of Christmas break. I'm probably leaving tomorrow." 

"Oh," Kristy says with disappointment in her voice. "I thought you'd change your mind about Shadow Lake." 

I shake my head. "No. I'd like to be with my sisters. I'd like to get to know my family." 

Kristy nods. "I understand," she says. "Of course, you're like part of our family, you know." 

I smile. "I'm glad. I like that." 

"It's almost time for dinner. The Stevensons are coming over. That's why I was trying to call. Stay and eat with us." 

"Sure!" 

Kristy leads me into the dining room and we help Charlie set the table while Watson and Nannie finish with dinner in the kitchen. It's noisy and chaotic just with the five of us moving back and forth between the two rooms. I like it. It's like old times. 

"Hey," Kristy says as we're laying out the napkins. "Guess what? I saw Sally White at the A&P this morning. Yeah, I know, Sally White at the A&P. She was wearing that weird beret with the feather. Anyway, I must have completely lost my mind or something because I invited her to Shadow Lake. And you know what she said? She said she'd have to consult her social calendar! Can you believe her nerve? She actually gets invited somewhere and she acts like I'm inconveniencing her! I think I hate that girl." 

I just laugh. 

The Stevensons arrive with dessert, an enormous chocolate cake decorated with yellow iced flowers. Abby and Anna made it together, which makes me a bit wary about eating it. I mean, Abby in a kitchen? Mrs. Stevenson helped with the flowers, Anna points out. At least the flowers are surely edible. 

Kristy, Abby, Anna, and I carry all the dishes to the table in the dining room. It's even noisier and more chaotic now. We slide into our chairs at the table with myself between Anna and Mrs. Stevenson. Elizabeth and Janet sweep into the dining room. Janet barks at Charlie to shut up before he even speaks. Elizabeth passes behind me and touches my shoulder, lightly. When she passes Kristy, she tugs her ponytail and kisses the top of her head. Elizabeth takes the seat beside Kristy, across from me. Down at the other end of the table, Janet makes a big production about not sitting near Charlie, but ends up two chairs from him anyway with Emily Michelle seated between them. Their arguing dies down and polite dinner chatter rises in its place, filling the air around us, half a dozen conversations drowning each other out. It feels right. I look across the table at Kristy and Elizabeth. They smile. 

**The End**

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**Author's Note:** And my first reaction is, "Thank God, that's over." 

Horrible, I know. 

As always, I would like to say thanks to a few (or more than a few) people. First off, I have to thank my friends, **emerald-doll**, **chelz22**, and **Blanket Apologist**. Yes, Bee, I'm thanking you even though just in this last week you've gotten caught up on the last fifty chapters. Seriously, what have you been doing all summer? But you did give great advice in the beginning. So, thank you - all three of you - for your help and encouragement. Your advice meant a lot and the story has benefitted from it. Thank you. 

Thank you to everyone on my f-list. You've all been fabulous with your feedback, support, and encouragement. And you're all saints, I think, for listening to my constant whining and bitching. So thank you to **Lioness Black**, **Paris Marriott**, **Just In Kase**, **Off-Key**, **piperrhiannon**, **RyanStiles4Me**, **Wicked Wonder**, and...apparently that's all the friends I have. 

And thank you, of course, to all my fabulous readers and reviewers. Your wonderful reviews are a terrific reward for the time and effort put into this story. They very much motivate me to update sooner and attempt to write the best story possible. Thank you. And thank you especially to the regular reviewers, who review if not every chapter, at least nearly every one. I look forward to your reviews and am pleased you care so much about the story and its characters . 

Finally, thank you to my sister for allowing me to write much of this story on her computer after my iMac blew up. Of course, she doesn't know I was writing _Baby-Sitters Club_ fanfiction. Shh...don't tell her. 

And thank you to Kathleen Turner for being so damn gorgeous in the '80s. Good luck with your next role as a phone sex operator. 

And...thank God, that's over. 

-Celica 


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